AN: A few quick little author notes before we begin.
Anything in Italics is NOT mine - that all belongs to Julian Fellowes and Downton Abbey. As do the characters.
The italicised sections are there to place my narrative between the right sections of series 5. I quite literally wanted to fill the spaces between the scenes and the emotional space between Cobert.
The story is all written (there are ten chapters) and I intend to update once a week. It's 80% angst, but I do promise some fluff at the end!
Lastly, a massive thank you to Zaibi who has diligently read this for me, critiqued it and helped me to bring my vision to life. I dedicate this angsty story to you Zaibi, the Cobert fandom angst Queen!
Cobert love to you all, and please leave your thoughts.
Chapter 1
Wait a minute, I don't see that I've done anything to make you angry.
No? I travel to London in order to give my wife a treat only to find her out dining with another man.
Mr Bricker wanted to discuss the paintings. Rosamund had said that she needed an early night. Was it so wrong for me to accept his invitation?
Bricker was interested in discussing pictures with you?
Yes. Is that so difficult to believe?
That an art expert would find your observations on the work of Piero della Francesca impossible to resist? Yes, it is hard to believe.
I'm going to bed.
Cora –
It's quite alright. You've said what you think and you have every right to do so.
She strides out of the room. He closes his eyes, stands and swallows the rest of the amber liquid in one gulp.
"Cora." He calls out after her, leaving the glass on a side table as he follows her out of the drawing room and back across the hall to the stairs. "Cora, please, wait."
"I'm not sure I want to wait for more insults Robert. I've heard quite enough. I will see you in the morning." The morning. Of course, she wants him to sleep in his dressing room. That isn't what hurts him the most though. He can hear the tears in her voice and swallows hard.
He had said the wrong thing. The words had come out wrong. He didn't mean that her opinions on the paintings weren't probably very good. She was intelligent and he was sure that she had said some interesting things. What he doubted was that Mr Bricker was only interested in her opinions. He was an art expert for goodness sake, he didn't need her opinions. He was bound to have an ulterior motive. A beautiful woman like Cora to wine and dine and talk to about his chosen topic. How blind could Cora be? The man was interested in one thing and one thing only, and it was not her opinions on paintings. But that was not quite how his phrasing had come across. He had made it sound as if her opinions, rather than Mr Bricker's attentions, were invalid. Now he was in the dog house.
He doesn't say anything, experience had taught him that arguing the point would not improve his position. He heads towards the dressing room Rosamund had assigned him and curses himself for not having packed his latest reading book. Trying to fall asleep tonight was not going to be easy. Falling asleep without Cora these days was always hard. But no Cora and no book would be almost impossible in his current state of mind.
He tugs impatiently at his tie and shrugs off his jacket. The sooner he can get to sleep the sooner this day would be over. He manages to wrestle one cufflink off easily but as ever the one on his right wrist proves difficult – his left hand not able to find the dexterity required to release it. They always infuriated him, Bates always did them. Or Cora.
Cora.
He growls in frustration. He had never foreseen the issue of getting his cufflinks off. He had left Bates at Downton with his head swimming with thoughts of how wonderful his evening was going to be. Dancing with his wife, and then kissing her and cherishing her. And of course, she would have taken his cufflinks off.
He flicks at the annoying piece of brass still firmly stuck on his wrist. What on earth was he going to do? Sleep in his dress shirt? Ring for the butler?
Neither seemed like reasonable options. In both cases he would end up being the stub of many a joke amongst his sister's servants and his sister would find out and make ghastly jokes. She had already been clawing away at him and dinner and making remarks about the state of his marriage if Cora was out with another man. She had seen his anger and risen to the bait, as was her custom. Everything was all so excessively infuriating.
He pulls at the brass cufflink and tries once again to unsuccessfully twist it out of its firm fit. He curses again. Why tonight? Why on earth had he not just brought Bates with him. He ignores the part of his mind that reminds him it's because he's meant to be having a romantic time with Cora. His thoughts wandering in that direction only make him angry again, Mr Bricker was proving to be a thorn in his side.
He ignores the thoughts in his head that tell him Mr Bricker is only an issue because he has made him one. She had apologised, twice and he had ignored that. Determined to be cross with her. Determined to make her pay for being out with another man. Her sincere apologies had only made him search for another way to demonstrate his displeasure and he had found his mark. Easily. As only a person who truly loved her could.
He sits down on the edge of the bed and swallows hard, the cufflink still firmly attached to his shirt. As he sits he notices the next problem. Aside from a small pile of blankets on the end of the dressing room bed, the bed is not made up. He lets out a long huff of frustration. His sister rarely had her servants make this bed up for him when he came to stay, knowing that it wasn't necessary and of course this time she hadn't known he was coming. He curses under his breath and stands.
It seemed there was only one option left. He steps back out into the hall, the lack of adjoining doors in Rosamund's house unfortunate on this occasion. There was every chance Cora would just let him stand in the hall. He knocks softly on the door on the other side of the hall.
"Cora? I know you don't want to see me. But would you at least help me take my cufflink off, I can't do it." He can hear muffled footsteps on the other side of the door and then it opens. He's staring at her feet as she reaches her hand forward and unclips his cufflink in one swift motion, she lets his arm fall back down without touching a single sliver of his bare hand. He looks up to thank her and almost gasps.
Her eyes are red rimmed and glassy. She had been crying and if the smudges of water on her dressing gown were anything to go by she had been crying ever since she had entered the room. He swallows, emotion bubbling in the back of his throat. Why had he been so careless with his words when it was Bricker he wanted to give a piece of his mind too. Bloody man, swarming in and flirting with her.
She holds the cufflink up in the air and he holds his hand out. Before he can reach forward to take it she drops it into his open palm. It seemed she was going to avoid all contact.
"I don't suppose you have two sets of sheets on the bed in here. Rosamund didn't have the dressing room bed made up."
"Of course she didn't. It wouldn't cross her mind that her brother would behave like such a child. Or maybe it did and she wanted to punish you." The words are cutting, brittle in the way they shatter into the space between them. He knows he should keep silent. It was better to let her rant. To get it out of her system and then they can talk about it rationally in a few days' time. But the combination of his simmering anger from earlier, his inability to make her see his point, and now her blatant determination to goad him win over any sense that still remained.
"Punish me by all means Cora, but it wasn't me that decided having dinner alone with another man was a good idea."
"Alone! Robert, it was a restaurant full of people. Besides, at least I had the sincerity to apologise when I ruined your evening. All you've done is hurl insults at me."
"Let's hope it's enough to make you realise you shouldn't do it again." She shakes her head at him, and he watches the tears accumulate in her eyes as she reaches for the door to steady herself.
"You don't get it do you Robert?" There is a silence that stretches between them. An awkward biting silence that seems to swirl the air between them. He knows he is meant to answer. He is meant to say that he does understand that he said the wrong thing. That he wasn't insulting her at all and what he had meant was that Bricker must have an ulterior motive. Not that her opinions are invalid. But the air swirls, the silence lingers, hissing in his ears, and he can't bring himself to say it. Not when she had done wrong too. Not when the smell of the perfume she had worn for Bricker; the perfume he loves so much, still lingers in the air between them. "Of course you don't." She seems to say this last part more to herself and then she shuts the door.
The door closing sends a waft of air across his face and the jasmine perfume burns at the insides of his nostrils. He turns and twirling the brass cufflink between his fingers he returns to the dressing room.
The silence stretches onwards.
The train chugs northwards but her thoughts remain stuck.
She glances up at him across the compartment. He twists his hat around in his hands. His usual habit of restlessness – fidgeting.
She would normally reach across and still his hands. She normally squeezes his hand and offers him comfort but she doesn't. Because they aren't living normally anymore.
It is his turn to apologise.
She would not extend the arm of comfort this time. Not after last night. Not after he made her feel so small.
That an art expert would find your observations on the work of Piero della Francesca impossible to resist? Yes, it is hard to believe.
She scrunches up her nose and adjusts her glove. Crying on the train was not an option. She had done the crying last night. Behind the closed door of one's bedroom. Her mother-in-law had taught her that.
She can feel her wedding ring burning beneath her glove. She twists it. He wasn't the only one with a habit for fidgeting when agitated.
She sees him turn to look out the window in her peripheral vision and she glances up beneath the brim of her hat. She studies the profile of his face. The turn of his neck. She had always liked his neck. Rubbing her nose along it as she falls asleep on his shoulder. Goodness she loved him so hopelessly.
Yes, hopelessly. That was the word. So hopelessly that despite last night, despite how much he'd hurt her, she still yearned for his embrace. She still wanted nothing more than for them to get over this (another of their marital crises) and return to the other side stronger than before. But that took forgiveness and trust. Love him she might, but forgiveness was not within her grasp just yet. He owed her an apology. She knew well enough from her past experiences that if she gave in he would not apologise and they will have progressed nowhere. He will continue to ignore her and keep her at a distance from matters of the estate and she will continue to feel like a spare piece of the family in her own home.
If only he would pay her as much attention as Mr Bricker. She gulps.
You'll be the best looking woman in the Ritz dining room whatever you're wearing.
Robert thought she was being naive. Robert thought she wasn't aware of what Mr Bricker was heading towards. But she wasn't. She knew well enough that men did not make such comments to married women unless they had an objective in mind.
The fact she was willing to ignore this because he had made her feel wanted was not something she had been proud of as he had walked her home through the streets of London. She hadn't been proud when she had walked through Rosamund's front door. She might have been a little lightheaded from the alcohol, but she had not been proud about not telling Mr Bricker straight out that she wasn't interested. But then, listening to Robert belittle her in that way she hadn't felt proud, but she had stopped beating herself up about it. Why shouldn't she accept a compliment? It would only have hurt Mr Bricker's feelings and there didn't seem to be any reason to do that. Not when time would eventually send them back onto their rightful paths.
How much easier this would all be if Robert were to just admit that his anger stemmed from jealousy. Rather than covering his jealousy with such unjust remarks. She knew well enough that he likely didn't mean them, but it didn't change the hurt that those words left behind. They may be spoken in anger but for him to say them he must at least vaguely believe them. It was that which hurt. The realisation that deep down somewhere in the heart she loves so much he can think that she is so beneath him. So unintelligent and simple.
She swallows. Lifting her hand to swipe away a single tear that she feels pinching at the corner of her eye.
"The views are rather spectacular from the train. Don't you think? Even after all this time, I don't grow tired of them." She nods in simple reply, the emotion welling in her throat too unstable to trust with words.
It hurt more than she would like to admit that still despite the tension radiating between them he would attempt such a simple remark to bring them back to each other. It was not the place for a full discussion of their situation, of course not, but neither was it right for him to ignore the silence between them. To try and pass over it as if it doesn't exist.
"I do wish Mary would decide if she's going to marry Lord Gillingham, they would make such a good couple." He tries once again to lull her into conversation. She takes the bait this time.
"I suppose by good you mean wealthy and from the same walk of life." She doesn't mean to make it sound quite as cutting as it comes across.
"Well yes, but they look so well together. Don't you think? So in love." She resists the temptation to roll her eyes. He had always had the tendency to be exceedingly blind.
"She's not in love with him." Her tone is acerbic. A sharp cutting edge that even takes herself by surprise. The anger was welling within her again. Realisation crashing over her in waves. Why would he notice the subtle clues she had been giving him about her discontentment in their relationship if he hadn't even noticed Mary wasn't in love? Mary whom he had seen in love before. She was expecting an apology from a man who was probably aware that what he had said last night was wrong but was completely unaware of the hurt he had been causing her for months.
She swallows, not daring to lift her gaze to meet his. Thankfully the train slows to a halt, they have arrived. The time for further discussion was thankfully at an end.
Have you seen what we've dug out for the Russians? I say 'we', but of course it was Patterson who did it.
Does it matter? We both know you place no value on my opinions.
Cora, I was cross. I had travelled the length of England to spend the evening with you and you have gone out. Aren't I allowed to be cross?
You're allowed to be cross. But you're not allowed to be unjust.