August 18, 1915

Robert Crawley sighed heavily as he got in bed beside his wife that night. She put her book down immediately and turned to him. "What's the matter?" she asked with concern.

Oh thank God for Cora. Hardly a day went by when he did not feel blessed to have her as his wife. They'd lost track of things for a while, what with Cora being unwell and Robert not knowing how to help her and instead just making everything worse. But they'd found their way again. Thank God for her.

"Robert, please tell me," Cora said softly. She was not begging per se, but her tone nearly broke his heart.

He took her hand and kissed it as he settled himself under the covers. "There's not much to tell, I'm afraid. I've been a bit conflicted as of late, but I don't see there's much of a way forward.

Cora frowned. "What do you mean?"

"There's a war on, Cora. A terrible war and it certainly shows no sign of ending anytime soon. And it's been more than a year now, since it all started."

She nodded. "The day of the garden party, I remember. I was still recovering from…"

"Oh golly, that's right," Robert interjected. It had been more than a year now since Cora had found out she was pregnant. More than a year since her terrible seizure. More than a year since Bates saved her life and the life of the son they named to honor him. More than a year since the war had begun. "It's been quite a year," he realized.

She hummed in agreement. "A hard one. But with good things, of course. Mary and Matthew. John."

"Of course," he answered. And those were very wonderful things. "Hard to believe it's been more than a year since we attended a London season. We haven't missed one since the year we met, I don't think."

Cora considered a moment. "I suppose not. I was in London during the season you were away in Africa, and you were able to come back on leave and be with me there."

"Yes, that's right," Robert recalled. "I remember how heartbroken you were that I wouldn't be able to come home and see the girls."

"The trains weren't the same then. You would've spent your whole leave traveling."

Robert quieted at that. Remembering that time, the year and a half or so that he'd been at war. That was what was bothering him now, in fact. "I should be there," he muttered, half to himself.

"I hope you don't mean that," Cora replied sharply.

"Cora, it's my duty to fight for King and country, the same as any British man."

She shut her eyes and let out a slow deep breath. "I can't stop you if that's how you feel." She opened her eyes again, looking at him imploringly. "But I do hope you'll think about a wife who loves you and needs you as well as a young son who needs to be taught to follow in your footsteps. I'll not become a Dowager Countess before my son can speak, Robert."

And that was the heart of the problem. Robert knew what he must do. But he didn't want to. He didn't want to leave John, who wasn't even able to stand on his own pudgy feet yet. He didn't want to leave Cora, who he loved more than life. He didn't want to leave Mary, who was alone and lost without her husband home with her. He didn't want to leave Edith, who he knew needed guidance and whatever else that he was at a loss to provide. He didn't want to leave Sybil, whose young life was just beginning to blossom so magnificently. Robert Crawley was a man who honored his family and his role in life, and right now, he could not determine the priority between them.

September 12, 1915

Sybil Crawley thanked Carson for helping her with her coat and ran out of the front doors to where Branson was waiting with the car. She got in and he started the engine. Sybil practically bounced in the backseat, eager as she was, but they both knew to be patient.

When Branson reached the end of the long drive and turned onto the main road, he glanced at her in the rearview mirror. Sybil grinned uncontrollable. "Tell me," she urged.

He smiled back at her, still driving but not with any real destination in mind. They did this about once each week or so with Sybil telling her parents that she had some meeting or other in Thirsk or Ripon and asking if Branson could drive her. Despite the difficulties she'd had during the election when Branson had been tricked into driving her to hear the liberal candidate speak, she had earned her Papa's trust again, and he allowed her to keep busy and do as she pleased so long as she didn't get in trouble. And how could she get in trouble when all they were doing was driving to town, stopping a while, and driving back? All they were doing was talking. No trouble there.

"I saw that the Czar has taken control of the Russian military," Sybil prompted.

"As did I," Branson answered. "I think he's seeing the dissention in the system he's created. The divine right of kings and aristocracy is coming to an end faster in Russia, and the dominos will fall everywhere."

Sybil frowned slightly at that. She knew where Branson's interests and beliefs lay, but her own experience and her own family and friends were a part of that system he found so evil. And even though she did agree that the peerage and all their privilege were unfair to the world as a whole, she could not be excited at the overthrow of that way of life. After all, the people who benefit from a bad system are not necessarily bad, and do they deserve the upset and potential violence that would come from that change?

Branson continued talking, telling Sybil the things he'd read in the Socialist papers he received. "There's been a conference at Zimmerwald in Switzerland," he said. "There were delegations for every Socialist Party in every nation, I think. And they've come up with a manifesto and resolutions in opposing the war."

"But surely we've all seen how necessary the war is by now?" Sybil pushed back. "Germany and the Turks and all the rest trying to take over the entire world and crushing everyone in their way? Someone has to stop them."

"That's just it, the conference denounced Germany's violation of Belgium's sovereignty. It's the problem of all sides using military action," he explained.

Sybil considered this. "Then what's the solution, if not meeting military force with military force?"

Branson blushed slightly, looking sheepish. "I haven't gotten a copy of the manifesto yet."

There was something so charming about that, Sybil thought, this man with such strong convictions and strong opinions, quick to voice them and defend them. But here he was at a loss because he did not yet have the writings that could best inform him. And he had admitted it to her. The trust he'd placed in her, the vulnerability he'd showed, it was unlike anything Sybil had ever seen. She did not take it for granted.

October 5, 1915

Anna Bates sat in the servant's hall that evening, mending one of Lady Mary's dresses as she waited to be called to ready Lady Mary for bed. The delicate lace had torn, and Anna had said she'd do her best to put it back to rights. She wasn't much of a seamstress, but she'd try her best. Perhaps Miss Baxter might help. She was quite good with things like this.

"Any good news to share?" Mrs. Hughes asked as she sat down with a cup of tea. She was speaking to Mr. Bates, who was reading a newspaper.

"No good news, I'm afraid," he said. "Not much good news around in the world, it seems."

"Anything on the war?" William asked.

Of course there was news on the war, that's all the news was nowadays, Anna lamented to herself.

Bates replied, "Yes, but it's nothing very inspiring. There's an article here about a nurse called Edith Cavell. From Norfolk, originally, but she established a clinic in Belgium. And of course the Germans took control of Belgium. This nurse was going around battlefields and rescuing allied soldiers, French and British, and harboring them in her clinic. The Germans found out she was aiding the enemy and they executed her yesterday."

"Oh how awful," Anna exclaimed.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said," her dear husband answered.

"No, it's best to know what's going on in the world. We're all too busy to know when things are so far away, but war isn't something we can pretend isn't happening," Anna insisted.

"Too right," he replied softly.

"I agree with you, Anna," Mrs. Hughes said. "But I do wish we should have something nice. Anything, really."

Recalling something Lady Mary told her earlier when dressing for dinner, Anna offered, "Mr. Crawley wrote that he'll be home on leave for three weeks in December. Should be just in time for their wedding anniversary and Master John's birthday. That will be nice."

Mrs. Hughes smiled. "That will be nice. I'll have to speak with Her Ladyship about what plans we should make for the wee one's first birthday. There is a war on, of course, but the little viscount certainly should be celebrated. Mr. Carson will like hosting a party again after so long, I should think."

Anna certainly agreed with that. There had been so much hardship for the family between Mr. Crawley going off to war and Lady Edith losing her Sir Anthony Strallen. But celebrating that precious baby and then Christmastime would be good for everyone. That was something to look forward to. Besides, Anna herself had been married for eight months now, and she wanted very much for others to enjoy the same happiness she'd enjoyed, too.

November 20, 1915

Cora Crawley sat in the library with her son in one arm and a letter in the other. John was squirming a bit. She sighed, "Robert, could you take him for a moment while I read this? It's from Mother."

Thankfully, her dear husband came to scoop the baby into his arms. "There we are, John, you'll be back with your mama in just a minute. She's got to attend to her own mama first. You've not met her yet, but I daresay you will as soon as she can make the journey."

That was mentioned in the letter, Cora saw. It was almost the first thing written, in fact. Travel between England and America was severely limited, and it was hardly safe where it was available, what with those U-Boats patrolling the Atlantic.

But it did make Cora sad that her mother had not been present for John's birth. She might have been a help in the weeks afterward. Perhaps Cora might not have suffered so much if her mother was there with her. It hadn't been possible, of course, with the war on, and it pained Cora now that she'd finally given birth to a son and no one of her own family had met him yet.

The letter went on from complaining about not having met John yet to complaining about Harold being maudlin about the war. Apparently he had been trying to invest in the theater and was on the brink of a deal with Charles Frohman, the successful producer, before Frohman had died in the sinking of the Lusitania. America was not involved in the war, but after that, it seemed like only a matter of time, surely. Mother hated war, and Harold just wanted to carry on with his fun-loving, free life, so neither of them were eager for President Wilson to provide any aid to the Allies dying in trenches throughout Belgium and France and Africa and wherever else.

Cora knew she'd need to figure out a response to her mother's letter, but that would take more time. For now, she just put it aside and looked up to where Robert was walking back and forth with John. Isis, now nearly fully grown and a very lovely Labrador, followed her master's every step.

It struck Cora that this was precisely how things should be. Robert with his son and his dog in the library of the home they loved. The war raged on, the world was in such disarray, but here and now, Cora could see this scene and know it was perfect.