Cora asked him for a walk and nearly lost her nerve.

But Edith was right and while keeping Robert in the dark was one of her perfected skills, he deserved to know what vexed her. He walked warm and solid beside her, not carrying on about The Matter of His Birth; for once since their arrival, he was at peace. Selfishly, she sought to prolong the moment, squeezing and releasing his bicep as they meandered the villa's grounds. She felt his eyes on her, knowing he was giving her a lopsided grin.

How she adored that silly smile, the face that was still even now boyish and dear to her.

And then she lost her footing on the uneven path. His arm caught her waist and still, she was in freefall.

"I think I have cancer." She monotoned, emotionless, as Robert reached to steady her further. The words were not the ones she meant, had no idea how they'd slipped past her lips instead of the carefully worded monologue she had intended. His gentle hands gripped harder, almost painfully, and he dragged her to solid ground, pinning her with his hands and his gaze. Usually his blue eyes rounded in shock made her chuckle. But then color rose into his face and he began to fall apart.

Unable to do anything but, she tried to hold him together.

She must hold him together.


Leaving a party early was a favored pastime of theirs. And like the many times before, they clung to one another desperately, stumbling through darkened hallways in a rush to finally be alone. They were driven by no less need, but sly giggles were replaced with heavy silence. Passion was usurped by the simple desire to hold and be held. They didn't bother to ring for help, loathe to allow one more spectator (even a trusted one) into the charged space. At the side of the bed, Cora let loose the gasp of discomfort and Robert before her, panic once more blowing his irises wide.

He crumpled to his knees as she sat gingerly and she could not help the sweet smile ghosting her features. She loved him so desperately in that moment that the ache of her heart eclipsed the low-level discomfort. He buried his face in her lap and the emotional storm of earlier returned, rocking him to his foundation once again.

But she was fatigued, exhaustion weighing her limbs such that it was an effort to rub his back.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled into the folds of her dress. "Oh my darling I'm so sorry."

"Whatever for?" She tunneled her fingers into the curls at the nape of his neck, wished it didn't ache quite so, so she might lean down to kiss his head.

She'd expected a teary apology for falling apart on her, for not being strong in the face of this newest, most fierce adversary. And yet he stunned her with his words, murmured against the material of her dress.

"I'd no idea," he no longer sobbed, but the words trembled just the same. "How you felt that night. I was ready to die and you…"

She'd stood in his blood, sticky and completely unaware of anything but him. Her heart pounded in her ears, muffling the sounds of distress around them. When they'd arrived at the hospital, when they knew he was finally stable, she'd crept away to wash her hands and sob her heart out in the lavatory. She returned only when she was calm, and the traces of her devastation washed away.

"It's easier, I think," she mused, weariness making her more philosophical, lowering her defenses. "To leave, then to be left. But my darling, I have no intention of leaving if I can help it."

"But cancer…" He spit the word like a sworn enemy and she regretted again that she'd allowed her fear to overcome her reason.

"Is a possible diagnosis but not the only." She drew his chin to look up at her. She smiled at him, reminded so sharply of their positions reversed when he'd told her their lives might be over and their fortune lost.

As then, she wouldn't let them wallow. For nothing, nothing at all, was written in stone. Except perhaps that he loved her, as she loved him.

Whatever was to be discovered by Dr Clarkson, they were beginning to face the reality that the time left to them was far shorter than what they'd lived. And it was up to both of them to make the most of whatever time god willed them.


The news, when Dr Clarkson gave it, was a stunning relief that lasted the length of a single breath.

Then the world shifted again, removing the steady ground beneath their feet once more.

Only this time, it was once more Cora who carried them all into the breach, her strength returning when they needed her the most.

There was so much to be done, and Violet Crawley would expect it to be done correctly.

Once more unto the breach.


Later, so many hours later, Robert found himself wandering the house. He was still a little dazed, numbed from the quick shift from jubilation to grief. It was easier this time, losing his Mama, than it had been to lose his Papa. Perhaps it was his age, his confidence, the closure afforded by Violet's last bedside court. Or perhaps it was Cora, her small hand on his shoulder, tethering him to the present and offering her silent strength to him, even as she was ill.

He became alarmed when he didn't find her with the rest of the family, quietly sharing stories over tea. Nor was she with Mrs Hughes, lining out the plan for the next few days. She wasn't in the library, writing letters to her relations and she wasn't on the telephone.

In spite of Dr Clarkson's positive words, Robert felt his heart begin to pulse quicker. She had overdone herself. She had collapsed. She…

He found her in their room. Still dressed from the very long day, she was curled on her side, clutching her midsection.

The room was shadowy and it wasn't until the moonlight glinted off her damp cheeks that he realized she was silently weeping.

He thought, briefly, that it was grief. But in spite of what love had been allowed to grow between his mother and his wife, he did not wholly believe it could be such. Belatedly, he thought of her illness. A diagnosis had removed much of the sting and he'd nearly forgotten her pain.

Rushing to her, he lifted her into his arms, holding her as a child. Fear clutched his throat but he forced his voice to steadiness.

"Tell me where it hurts, my darling. I will get the doctor at once."

She shook her head weakly and the tentative control Robert had on his emotions wavered under the weight of her emotion. She tried to pat his hand, but curled his face into his throat, trying to speak into his skin.

"I'm…" The words faded into another hiccuping sob.

"You're so brave, my darling. The bravest I have ever known. And you've handled so much on your own. Let me help you?"

He didn't mean it as a question, but it came as such. She spent decades righting the ship under his command, and he didn't wonder that she doubted him now. That whatever was vexing her, she feared to share the burden might be too much for him.

He'd been ashamed of his breakdown in France, of the panicked way she clutched at him and tried to soothe. We aren't sad people, she'd said, and he'd nearly contradicted her, reminding her of the litany of bad luck and death and loss that seemed to plague them. Imagine, his ill and possibly dying wife comforting him.

"I know I'm not always the strongest chap. But…" he brushed his lips against her hair. "I can stand it if you can. Let me carry this for you, the way you've always helped me."

"Hold me…" is all she asked, tucking herself further into his embrace.

That…that he could, and would, always do.


Late into the night, once she settled comfortably beneath the duvet in his arms, she finally spoke.

"I'm sorry, Rob–"

At once he brushed aside her whispered apology. "Don't do that." He chided gently. "Tell me."

He could see the battle in her, the fist she curled and released and the lip she worried painfully with her teeth.

"Tell me."

She nodded and cleared her throat. "I…thought I was ready to die. I re-made my will. I held your hand. I watched my girls. I thought - this was a good life, and I have gotten all the joy any one woman deserves."

He thought of her, the weeks before their journey and then the journey itself, as she'd planned for her own death. Unobtrusive. Determined. He thought of her in France, seemingly carefree as she drew him into sightseeing and adventures. She'd held his hand over the waves then slept nearly twelve hours that night.

She swiped at her nose, determined not to weep again even though the tears still burned low in her throat.

"And then Tom spoke of a new family tradition. Of years and years to go in the future and I…"

"You weren't as ready as you thought."

"No. Not nearly. I had given them up though, you see. The way I'd given up so many things. Because I wanted to be brave, and strong, and …" She huffed a sigh and sat up, urging Robert to look into her eyes. "We don't have much time left, you and I. Even this is just a stay…a pause…in the face of the inevitable. It frightens me to think of it."

"Then we shan't." He said simply. The darkness surrounding them was familiar and so many of their secrets had been spoken in these particular shadows. When they were young and frightened of the tasks before them, the vastness of the future. Now the future dwindled, like a candle burned nearly out, and their fears had shifted.

"We will take each day as the gift it is, and live them together. That will be enough, won't it?"

He could feel her gaze, make out the glint of her eyes in the dark. She'd asked him once if she was enough and, thinking with his wounded ego, he'd told her no. It nettled him, the times he'd made her believe she…they…were not enough.

But on the verge of losing everything, when he realized the vast darkness that accompanied the loss of her, he'd understood.

She would always be enough.

"I…"

"No, wait. I must say this." It was his turn to cough, to push words past the clog in his throat. "I could have lost it all. My title, my father, my past…I could have lost it all and still had the world so long as I had you. You tried to tell me that. Over and over, time and again. I wouldn't listen but you were right. And whatever time is left to us, we'll take it. Every second. And we'll be happy."

"Yes," she agreed, swallowing another sniffle. The tears, this time, were good ones. "We will."

"And next year, when we all summer in the villa, we'll don our swimming costumes and join the children in the ocean, dance until we can't stand, and feast until we burst."

She lurched into him, pressing her face and lips to his throat, the echo of a giggle escaping her. He'd never been much of an optimist, but she had to admire his ability to rise to the challenge. He was right. They would be happy. And once the storm had subsided in her chest, the joy of just what that meant began to bubble there, light and intoxicating as champagne.

"What?" He asked, slightly offended by her laughter as they tumbled back against the pillows.

"I love you," she said, framing his charming face with her hands. Their adventures brightened his eyes and in his optimism, she recovered her strength. "I love you so very, very much."

He kissed her then, thinking of the cinema and the films he'd seen and how this is the moment the words would flash on the screen.

THE END

But it wasn't, was it? It wasn't nearly the end.