AN: Hello all! Last week someone left a review questioning Cora's mental use of "awesome" to describe intimacy with Robert, and I wanted to explain that here, because I feel like a lot of people probably thought it sounded too modern, and I probably owe you all an explanation. I actually questioned the word myself when I included it, because I worried that it might make her sound like a modern teenager, which of course is the last thing we want here. (Although I think the world is probably in desperate need of a modern AU where Cora is the very hip "it girl" in her high school, and Robert is a hugely awkward nerd. Someone please write this!) However, in the end, I decided to go with it, because I thought it was a word Cora would have used, and because I thought it was the word that best fit her meaning. In hindsight, I probably should have given more weight to the fact that we're all modern readers with modern ears, and it would be hard to hear the word in anything but its modern sense. So I probably should have given her internal dialogue that didn't have such a split between its historic meaning and its modern use, and sorry to those of you who were thrown by it! But, if you're interested (and given that we all love Downton and we all love words, I think a lot of you probably are), here's what Cora was thinking, based on the word's history.

The colloquial use of awesome (i.e., "cool" or "really great") has only been common since roughly the 1970s or 80s, so Cora wouldn't use it that way. However, the word is much older than that. It first appeared in the 1590s, when it described how you reacted to something, not how great something was: it meant "profoundly reverential." So you might have said, "I am awesome when I think of God," not "God is awesome." But about a hundred years later, the meaning shifted to describe something that filled you with awe, something that was truly incredible, along the lines of "The Grand Canyon is an awesome sight," "Holding my baby for the first time was an awesome moment," or "God's power is awesome." That's the meaning it kept until the end of the 20th century. Now, we've mostly replaced "awesome" in this sense with "awe-inspiring" (and that term existed in Robert and Cora's era, too, but I thought it sounded a bit odd. It's probably what I should have gone with, though.)

The word "awesome" would be in Cora's vocabulary in 1913, but when she describes sex with Robert that way, she doesn't mean what a modern woman would mean (i.e., "That was pretty great sex!"). She's using the word in its historic sense: going all the way with Robert, for the first time in decades, takes her breath away and absolutely fills her with awe. It's not a word she would use often—she'd save it for, say, viewing Iguazu Falls, rather than to describe a burrito she enjoyed. But I think the former is exactly how she would feel about sex in this situation.

"Isn't it wonderful to have him here?" Eleanor gushed. She was perched on the edge of Charlotte's bed, still in her evening gown, while Anna, the housemaid who dressed both daughters, braided Charlotte's hair. "Isn't he just so sweet?"

Charlotte smiled indulgently. "I suppose I can't deny that he's sweet." And he was—Evelyn Napier was perfectly sweet. He was also perfectly dull, and his looks were perfectly forgettable, and privately Charlotte could imagine nothing worse than having to spend the next fifty years with him. And, as excited as her sister was about their upcoming wedding, she could not help but think that, had they been the biological daughters of the Earl and Countess of Grantham, with eligible suitors swarming all over, Eleanor would not have looked twice at Evelyn. She had fallen for him not because he was a worthy match for her own charm and vivacity, but because he was the only young, male aristocrat who had ever paid either of them any attention at all. The sisters were quite accepted within the Yorkshire gentry, and no one was rude to them, but Charlotte had long had the sense that no earl or duke or viscount wanted their heir to marry a woman with no bloodline. No one, that was, except Evelyn's father the Viscount Branksome, whose late wife had been a dear friend of Cora's. The Napiers had been a frequent presence at Downton throughout Charlotte's life, and thus it had been natural for Evelyn to fall in love with the beautiful Eleanor, and for his father to smile upon the match.

Charlotte did not doubt, really, that Eleanor was in love with him, too. She merely doubted that it would have happened in a universe where Eleanor had more options.

"Did you see the way he looked at me tonight when the men came through?" Eleanor went on.

"I confess I wasn't looking at him."

Eleanor sighed dramatically. "Oh, it was just how he'll look this summer when he sees me come down the aisle."

What Charlotte had seen was the way Evelyn's guest had looked at her. The Crawleys were hosting Eleanor's fiancé for a brief visit and a hunt, and he had asked at the last minute if he might bring with him a Turkish diplomat he was looking after in advance of a conference in London. They had readily agreed, and Evelyn had arrived yesterday in the company of a Mr. Kemal Pamuk, who was, Charlotte readily admitted, breathtakingly handsome.

He was also breathtakingly impertinent. His eyes had raked over her all evening, and he had drawn her into a side room under the pretense of looking at a painting…and then he had grabbed her and kissed her forcefully. Shocked, Charlotte had shoved him away and hissed that she would not tell anyone of his behavior for Evelyn's sake, but that she certainly did not expect it to be repeated.

She was replaying the kiss in her mind now. It had been, she supposed, rather fascinating to learn what it was to be kissed by a handsome man, but that had never been the way she'd expected to be kissed. And by a Turk, of all things. She was scandalized and thrilled in equal measures, and she was not sure she would ever get it out of her head.

"There we are, m'lady," Anna said as she tied off the end of Charlotte's braid. "Ready for bed."

"Thank you, Anna," Charlotte said. "Please take Miss Eleanor to her room and undress her as well."

"Char-lotte," Eleanor whined, "I'll never sleep tonight."

"That's what you've said every evening since he proposed at New Year's. And I would like to sleep, so do get out."

When Eleanor and Anna had gone—Eleanor humming to herself—Charlotte moved slowly into bed. She was not sure she'd sleep either, not with the memory of Mr. Pamuk's lips on hers.

Yet she had not been lying down very long when she heard her door creak open behind her. "Eleanor?" she called softly, for who else would it be?

"I'm not your sister," a man replied in a low, accented voice, and she shot up, spinning around to see Mr. Pamuk letting himself into her room, a single candle in his hand. He was no more dressed than she was.

"Mr. Pamuk! I—what on earth are you doing here?" As though she did not already know. As though it were not perfectly clear. As though he could have a legitimate reason for sneaking into her room in his bedclothes.

Frantically, she wrapped herself in her dressing gown, as though an extra layer were some sort of protection. There was nothing thrilling in this. A stolen kiss was thrilling. This…this was terrifying.

He held a finger to his smiling lips. "Shh."

"Mr. Pamuk, I can't think what has led you to think you would be welcome in my bedroom," she said, willing it to come out as a certain declaration rather than a frightened squeak. "I demand you leave at once."

He shook his head. "Charlotte. Charlotte. Who knows when we'll meet again?"

"I don't want us to meet again. I want you to leave." He advanced towards her, and she shrank back. "Please. Leave."

He'll leave, she tried to tell herself. He'll go, if it's clear I won't give him what he wants. And some men would have gone, she knew, but something in Pamuk's eyes made it quite clear that he would not. He would prefer to take her willingly, but he would force her if he had to.

"You won't be the first, you know," he said, stepping close enough to grasp her waist. She tried to pull away, but he held her firmly. "There's no harm in a bit of fun before marriage. No one has to know."

"I'll scream." Would she be heard? Oh God, she hoped she'd be heard. "I'll scream if you don't leave."

"No, you won't," he said confidently, pressing a kiss to her neck. "You won't let them find a man in your room."

She didn't want that. She absolutely did not want that, but she wanted even less to be forced into intimacy with this man—an intimacy that could very well have its own consequences. And so, as she felt Pamuk's teeth scrape against her neck, she screamed.

Pamuk clapped his hand roughly over her mouth, his eyes flashing. "For God's sake, Charlotte! You'll wake the whole house!"

Not now, she wouldn't, she realized with a nauseous feeling in her stomach. She wouldn't be heard at all. Her screams were too quiet now that he had covered her mouth, far too quiet to wake sleeping family members, far too quiet to reach the hall boys.

He pushed her back toward the bed and forced her onto it as she struggled and thrashed, her screams disappearing into his immovable palm. Oh God, he was…he was going to…

She kicked him furiously and tried and failed to poke her fingers into his eyes—she was determined not to go without a fight—and, for the moment, seemed to be succeeding. He could not tear at her night dress while his hands were busy covering her mouth and holding her down, and she prayed desperately that she would be heard before this could go any further.

And then…

"Char—" she heard her sister's voice begin, followed by a sharp, "Oh, dear God!"

Pamuk froze, and so did Charlotte, who was relieved and horrified in equal measure. "Miss Crawley," he began, his voice perfectly smooth.

But Eleanor was having none of it. "Get off! Get off of her!" she shrieked as she flew at them both.

"Eleanor!" Charlotte could barely breathe at the thought of having Eleanor so near Pamuk's arms, but he dodged her, likely aware that he could not fight two women at once. Eleanor continued to scream as he hurried to the door, where he was met by two hall boys.

The room descended into chaos as Eleanor tried to tell them what she'd found and Pamuk argued that he'd been there at Charlotte's invitation and Charlotte shouted that he most certainly had not and the young men grabbed hold of him as he tried to break free, a still-shrieking Eleanor leaping forward to pummel him with her fists, and at last Robert, still blinking sleep from his eyes, appeared in the doorway demanding to know what all the commotion was.

And it was then that the storm truly broke. Charlotte had not known her father could be so angry—when he took hold of Pamuk's collar, she wondered if she might be about to witness a murder. But Robert had the sense to leave no physical injuries that would have to be explained later, and he also had the sense not to fetch the police, much to the relief of his daughter, who was praying fervently that this evening was a secret that would never leave Downton. Instead, he sent the hall boys to wake Evelyn, who was to escort Pamuk out of the house, as well as Carson, who was to supervise and ensure the departure.

"Papa," Eleanor said suddenly, speaking for the first time since Robert's appearance, "you don't blame Evelyn, do you?" She was standing next to Charlotte, who had sank back onto the edge of the bed, and playing with her sister's hair, which had at some point come loose from its braid.

"I do blame Evelyn," Robert snapped. "He ought to have better sense in whom he brings into his fiancee's home."

"I don't think he'd had time to know much about Mr. Pamuk," Eleanor pleaded. "I'm sure—once he hears, he's going to be horrified. So horrified!"

"I should think so!"

Eleanor fell silent, and Robert turned to Charlotte. "Are you certain you're all right?" he asked softly.

No. No, she wasn't certain. She knew she was not injured in the slightest, but she had never felt less all right in her life. "He didn't hurt me," she said, sidestepping the question and pressing her hands together, trying in vain to stop their shaking.

Her father was silent for a moment, considering. "Eleanor," he said, "why don't you stay with your sister tonight?"

"Of course, I—"

But Charlotte shook her head violently. She did not want to spend the night here, not in the bed where Pamuk had thrown her.

"If it would make you feel safe, Charlotte, we can have some of the staff stand outside your room tonight. I'll stand there myself, if you'd like. Or Anna could come and sit—"

Charlotte cut him off. "Is Mama awake?" she asked, feeling her lip tremble as she said her mother's name. For she did not want Eleanor to lie down with her, or a footman to stand guard outside her room, or Anna to sit up with her: nothing would comfort her or relieve her tears the way her mother would, and all she wanted was to curl up next to Cora.

Her father nodded. "I expect so. Did you want to see her? We both woke up when we heard all the shouting, and I doubt she's gone back to sleep without knowing what's happened."

"Can I sleep with her?" Charlotte blurted out, too scared to be embarrassed at the childish request.

There was a moment's surprise in Robert's eyes, but he recovered. "Of course. I'm sure she'll have no objection. I'll sleep in my dressing room."

On another night, the sisters would have shared an eyeroll at the impropriety of their parents' sharing a bed or muttered to their father that he ought not to admit to such things, but nothing seemed funny tonight.

After kissing Eleanor, Charlotte followed Robert through the halls to her mother's room. "Will you tell her for me?" she asked as they approached. "I don't—I don't want to have to tell her about it."

He surveyed her gently in the darkness. "Of course."

"Robert?" she heard Cora call when he pushed the door open, fear and hesitation in her voice. "What was wrong? Is everyone all right?"

Charlotte hung back in the hallway as he stepped inside, suddenly almost guilty at the incident. She had, she knew, encouraged Pamuk—flirting with him after he returned from the hunt, thrilling at the kiss, blushing and smiling when he had stared at dinner—and she knew her mother, who always noticed these things, was aware of at least some of this.

"Everyone is quite all right," Charlotte heard Robert say firmly. "No one is hurt, but Charlotte's had quite the scare."

Part of her wanted to plug her ears and hum loudly to drown out the story as her father repeated it to her mother, but she was also eager to hear Cora's reaction while the countess thought she had privacy, and she stepped closer to hear the conversation. Charlotte's own face was growing hot with shame at the thought of tonight's events being recounted.

"Mr. Pamuk apparently found his way to Charlotte's bedroom," Robert was saying.

"Oh God," Cora breathed, "did he—tell me he didn't—"

"No. Charlotte is unharmed. "She fought him—quite bravely—and shouted until Eleanor heard her and came running—"

"They've both been involved in this?"

"Charlotte was very clear that it was only thanks to Eleanor's arrival that she was saved. The two of them together managed to rouse the hall boys, and that was when you and I heard the noise, and I went running down there."

"But what have you done with Pamuk?" There was a hard anger to her mother's voice that made it almost unrecognizable to Charlotte's ears.

"He's leaving right now. Evelyn's been awakened, and they're both dressing. Carson will see them out."

"And Charlotte? Oh God, my baby…are you quite sure she's all right? How did she—"

"Yes, she's quite unhurt, and—"

"Take me to her," Cora demanded, her voice wavering. It was not a voice that promised a lecture for an irresponsible daughter; rather, Charlotte heard the same desperation she had felt to be near her mother reflected in her mother's own tone, and she swallowed hard.

"Darling—"

There was a rustling of fabric that Charlotte took to be Cora's pushing aside of the bedsheets. "I must see her, Robert," she went on. "Please—"

"She's here, darling. She asked to see you. Char—"

But he did not need to call her name, for Charlotte had already stepped into the room. One of the gas lamps had been lit, and Cora was propped up on her elbow, her face stark white. There was grief in her eyes, and fear, but no judgment or anger, and Charlotte felt herself beginning to crumble.

The word Mama burst from her lips—she was not sure if it had been whispered, shouted, or sobbed—and she half ran, half stumbled to the bed, where she immediately climbed in and lay down alongside her mother.

Nothing about this felt odd to Charlotte. The Crawley sisters had grown up without ever having a thought of their mother's coming to them, and neither had ever been embraced or held by her while standing. As small children, it had been their custom to climb into her lap when they wanted her attention, and, as they'd gotten bigger, they'd become used to taking seats at their mother's level for any prolonged conversation and to lying down next to her if she were resting in the afternoons or if they wanted comforting after a nightmare. Charlotte could not quite remember how long it had been since she'd been in the latter situation, but she didn't think she'd ever had a dream as a child that was anywhere near as frightening as tonight's reality had been. She moved as close as she could to Cora, clinging to her tightly.