The sea breeze felt cool and salty against his skin. Much of his days on the ship were spent outside, for his small cabin—small, though it was likely among the largest on the ship—felt condensed and uncomfortable. So he strolled around the decks, more times than he could count, and tried to sit on benches and read as the days slipped by.

He'd left Newport in the morning, the sun bright and warm as the ship pulled away from the docks. He'd stood back, allowing the people who had loved ones back ashore his place by the railing, so that they might wave goodbye. In that moment, that solitary moment of watching others have what he wanted so desperately, he regretted not waking her. And even more, he regretted ever leaving that house without her.

But as one day at sea turned to two, and that to three, he lost the achy feeling that plagued him so often, finding that it instead hid in the depths of his chest and resurfaced only fleetingly, when he let his mind wander. Instead he tried to busy his mind, allowing himself but a few moments of longing in the mornings and at night when he looked at her photograph and wondered again if he had made a mistake.

He felt safer, in a way, locked up on a ship. There was little he could do to muddle the situation further and he was allowed to be alone with himself, ruminating on their last days together.

He ruminated on those last days—well, day—far more than one might consider gentlemanly.

Oh how he ruminated.

He thought of her hair, the way it tumbled down her shoulders when released from the silver pins. He thought of her pale skin that reflected the white moonlight and glimmered against his own. He thought of her lips, swollen and pressed against him. And he thought of her eyes, fixed to his as they silently communicated everything that had been lost between them.

It drove him to distraction, when he let it. And each time he wondered, again, if he had made a mistake. But he told himself no; she asked him to go. She asked him calmly, with conviction that only Cora held, to give her time and to give her space.

He knew his wife better than he knew anyone else. But he would never claim to know her better than she knew herself. So he had left. Packed up his cases, slipped a note for her onto the main entryway table, and left.

It was the fourth night of the journey back to England. He knew what he was getting into when he procured his ticket, but he could not pretend to be very pleased that there would still be an overnight stop in Ireland—it would only delay the inevitability of his return and force him to spend an extra night on the horribly dull ship.

But tonight he decided it was time to make plans. And he liked to be methodical about things like this. He had an early dinner in the ship's dining room—it was still hard dining alone without copious amounts of liquor for company, but he was getting more used to it as of late—and then retired to his room with the inkwell and pen he requested from a passing steward.

He scrawled line after line of thoughts built up over the last weeks and months. Before…before Sybil had died, Matthew asked over and over about restructuring the estate; he'd drawn up plans and made meetings, all of which Robert brushed off in an attempt at glossing over what lay beneath their well-manicured estate. But now, in the absence of thinking about Cora, his mind turned over the ideas, and he saw far more clearly how right Matthew had been.

That was first on the list. Speak to Mary and Matthew. He wanted to speak to Mary first, really, and perhaps it was true that he harbored tender feelings for his eldest born that the others had seen. But she was so like him, he'd always known, and he needed to make her understand. Understand what exactly, he was not sure. But he needed them back at Downton, taking their places as co-masters of the estate. If he was to be without Cora, for however long that might be, he needed them there to steady him.

And then Edith, his sweet and sensitive middle born. She was the least angry with him, he thought, but he often underestimated the depth and breadth of her feelings. It was his fatal flaw with her, he knew; he underestimated her, and it would likely take more than kind words to truly smooth things over. He wanted her back at Downton, too, but knew she loved London. He suspected she loved more than London, and felt his fists clench up reflexively when thoughts of a certain editor came to mind, but he would leave all that to Cora. She was always better at these sorts of troubles. He made a note on his ink-spotted pages to mention this in the first letter he would write to Cora.

He knew there was still more to do. He would need to speak with Rosamund and apologize for his behavior. Mama would likely be more difficult; she did nothing in halves and would hold a grudge longer than most. But eventually she would come around.

But they were on the lesser scale of worry for him. Robert knew, or hoped at least, that his family would come around. If he could keep from drinking himself mad again, and take his place back at Downton, they would support him. They stuck together, ultimately, and he knew that they would.

But looking at his pages he knew his omission was glaring. He tried telling himself it was not a matter of concern, but that was a lie. It was of the upmost concern. It was the one facet of his plans that would likely determine all the rest. Branson, he knew, would be the one snag in it all. Again. And he cursed himself for thinking that way; he frowned like a scolded child when he thought of how displeased Cora would be if she knew how he thought of it. But she would be wrong if she thought he was successful in ignoring it completely; Tom Branson somehow made his way into his thoughts more often than he was willing to admit.

The idea had come to him during a walk in the gardens in Newport.

It seemed a mad plan at first, but the more he thought about it the more he thought it might be mad enough to work. The estate was in need of a new manager. Jarvis, in a fit of anger after Robert had stumbled into the library in a whisky-induced stupor for one of their meetings, had quit. It was very likely when Robert returned the entire estate would be overgrown and in disarray. They would need a new estate manager. And, as disturbed as the idea still made him, that estate manager could be Tom Branson.

He'd not said anything to Cora for fear of splitting open her still healing wounds. It was the reason she'd left, he knew. If Tom and the baby had stayed at Downton, Cora would have too. For Sybil's sake she would have ghosted around the house, ignoring him and doting on her grandchild.

Branson would likely say no. More than likely he would tell him to go to hell. He probably deserved that, Branson's ire. He was, after all, still mentally referring to him as Branson. And he'd not made it easy for them; at the time he could hardly bear the thought of having an Irish grandchild. But now, with so many things lost to the wind, he would like nothing more than to see the tiny baby who undoubtedly looked quite like her mother.

So Branson, too, was added to the list.

As he folded up his pages of notes, he wondered it if made him selfish to ask Branson back partly because he hoped it would draw Cora, too, back to Downton. And he wondered if this small caveat indicated more than he would concede it did. He was, after all, supposed to give her space, not plot ways to bring her back under false pretenses. And anyway, Cora too was already in his notes. If she were not back—or on her way back by Christmas, he would return to Newport or New York to see her. She could have her space, so long as he could anticipate seeing her.

It was rather early for bed but as there was little to do on a ship besides wander the deck or drink whisky to pass the time, Robert slipped on his nightclothes and settled into the small bed, ready for sleep. Thoughts of seeing Cora in New York at Christmas floated around his head until sleep finally claimed him, somewhere out in the deep, black ocean still so terribly far from Downton and inching, by the second, even farther away from his wife.