Soon, the next morning came and Bates woke him up, punctual as ever. His head still felt twice its normal size, he could feel the throbbing intensify even before he had opened his eyes, but his hand felt even worse. Just trying to lower the duvet covering him was linked to a sharp pain stabbing at his hand and his face pulled into a tight grimace, his jaw clenching tightly.
"Good morning, my lord. It's half seven, like you requested," said his valet upon drawing back the curtains in the quaint room.
Robert wanted to say something, but couldn't think of what to say without possibly groaning in pain, his jaw still clenched tightly to keep the noises from coming out.
"Are you alright, my lord?" asked Bates, his brow furrowed.
After some time, and only when finally sitting up on the edge of the bed, Robert replied: "I will be if you can get me something for this blasted headache, I think, and something for my hand as well."
Bates, ever the dutiful man, knew better than to ask questions and instead just set about getting his employer dressed for the day, being extra careful with his hand, which was looking rather bruised.
"I will bring you something for the headache at breakfast and a bandage for the hand to stabilise it, which should help with some of the pain. But maybe you should see Dr Clarkson, my lord. It really looks quite bad."
Robert nodded curtly at his valet and old friend through the mirror he was standing in front of, while Bates brushed his suit down and gave him one last look over.
He was the first down that day and started eating his breakfast in solitude, which he was thankful for. He was not sure he would be able to stand much small talk, he never even touched his newspaper, which surprised even Carson. The butler, however, stayed put in his place and only raised one of his impressively bushy eyebrows when Bates entered with some powder and a bandage he then tightly wound around the earl´s hand, mostly hiding the bruises that had intensified immensely over night.
The powder Bates had brought did help and so Robert was able to go about his business in the library and later on out on the estate. It wasn't a pleasant day at all outside, and usually that would put Robert off, but his mission that day was to stay out of his wife´s reach. He did not know how to interact with her, so he preferred wrapping his coat tightly around him, putting the collar up and pulling his hat lower than usual, while braving the relentless rain. There was no direct sunlight reaching through the thick, grey clouds above him and he couldn't help but think that it all seemed to reflect his mood so perfectly.
He was angry at her, he was angry that she had let Bricker go this far, that she hadn't told him off when he interfered with them having a nice evening out in London - no, she had defended him even. She had always allowed that scumbag to come back to Downton, even when there was no reason, just because he asked. She must have wanted him back here, why on earth would she have allowed it otherwise.
As angry as he was at the horrid art historian, he couldn't blame him for thinking she would want him in her bedroom, for taking the wrong cues, for trying to step into his place, just like that, and he had tried to blame it all on him. Robert had really tried hard. She had led him on, even if she had not meant it. He gave her that benefit of a doubt, she had looked too uncomfortable the night before with Bricker in the room. He was, however, angry at the sheer audacity of this man, asking himself back again and again, lodging here at the estate just to openly flirt with his wife. He did not even stop when they were at the dinner table, and he did it in front of him and her daughters, no less.
He was also angry at himself, so very, very angry. Why on earth did he allow it to keep going on? Why did he leave his house the night that man would be here, just because some old general had insisted on hosting a dinner for old time's sake? And why had he got so blinded by rage that he kept punching that man? He had almost knocked him out with his first punch alone. Robert was not a brutal man, he was not one to pick a fight without reason, least of all physically. Sure, he endorsed one or the other heated argument over the years, but punching someone? He had never done that, it was not what he was raised to do.
Hell, he was not one for scaring his wife and that he had done, he really did frighten her last night, he had seen it written so clearly on her face. She had never seen him lose it, not like this, and he didn't know what she thought of him now, having been witness to everything.
Why did he let his judgement become so clouded? He was so angry at the things this man made him do. Bricker drove him mad, he made him a jealous man, something Robert had never been. He knew that his wife loved him, she loved him from the very beginning, even when she knew he did not love her. And yet this man had made him shout things at his wife in anger, things he never even believed in. He still regretted that night, when he had gone to London to surprise his wife and treat her to a night out, only to find out she had been doing just that with that ghastly man. He deeply regretted everything he said that night and somehow it had all led to this.
He trusted his wife, he always had. After all, she had never given him any reason to doubt her. So why was this any different? Why could he not trust her when she said that it was all Bricker´s doing?
Robert didn´t know, he couldn't figure it out. This wasn't like him at all.
Still walking on the gravel paths around the house, his coat and hat soaking wet from the constant downpour, Isis still strolling faithfully by his side, he chanced a look at his pocket watch and saw that it was time to get back to the house and let Bates help him get ready before the guest for their cocktail party would arrive.
Sometimes, the modern side in him began to question the need for a valet. He was a grown man, so shouldn't he be able to make himself look presentable on his own? But that side stayed silent that day, Robert was glad of the help now that his hand was almost useless in its current state. He had promised himself to let it rest for the day, barely using it at all, even when eating, just so that he could shake a few hands without flinching later in the evening.
Great, he had an entire evening of socialising ahead of him. An evening he would have to spend next to her for the majority of it, with his hand still throbbing with pain as a constant reminder of what had transpired the night before. How was he to manage being this close to her while all these thoughts were driving him mad?
And then there he was, not too long after, standing in his tails at the entryway to the great hall, his wife at his side, constantly trying to strike up a conversation with him in between greeting the new arrivals announced to them by Carson, who was standing on the other side of the door. Robert could feel his imploring looks lingering on them from time to time. All this business of shaking people's hands really was no good for his hand and the pain that he had got used to over the course of the day just kept getting worse with each hand he had to shake.
He had asked Bates to hide the stark white bandage as best he could under the sleeve of his tailcoat, and his valet had done a rather decent job of this ungrateful task. The stark white was contrasting the black of his sleeve quite impressively, but the valet had wound the new bandage around his hand in a very subtle manner, only covering as much as was totally necessary to hide the angry red and purple stains on his skin.
Every pause in greeting got increasingly harder to bear for him. Usually he was thankful that his wife was not one to cause a scene and would just play it off with a smile, forever being the great hostess she was expected to be, at least until they were alone. But now he just could not stand her wanting to engage in small talk as their guests were mingling, sipping on the various cocktails. He felt her turn to him, felt her eyes on the side of his face as he was stoically looking ahead. She said something about the young man´s father who had died not too long ago and he felt his jaw clench involuntarily. Instead of turning to face her and answer, he let his gaze wander around the room, briefly locking eyes with Mary. His eldest daughter´s gaze was puzzled, she must have sensed there was something wrong with her parents. Great, now it wasn´t even just between him and his wife. There was no way that Mary would let this go so easily, she was too much like her grandmama.
There it was again, the shooting pain in his hand and he broke eye contact with his daughter to avert his gaze and smooth out an imaginary crease in his bandage.
Just how much longer was he supposed to stand here? Whose idea even was this cocktail party?
Just then, cousin Isobel had arrived, with Dickie Merton in tow and he was glad for the distraction this posed for his mother. Having Mary shoot him questioning looks was one thing, but dealing with his mama was another. Robert just did not want to have his mother involved in any of this, she would only make matters worse with her meddling. And he didn't want to give her Cora´s behaviour as cannon fodder to belittle her more than she had been doing for the better part of the past 30 years, no matter how strained he thought their relationship to be.
However, he was not in luck that night. Just as Cora had talked about some pearls that Lady Ingleby had been wearing, he looked away from his wife again, first to the ground ahead of them, the hurt clearly written on his face, and then back up at their guests. His pale blue eyes met those of his mother and he knew she could see his inner turmoil, his hurt, his thoughts running rampant in his head. But strangely enough, it did not faze him, however much he thought it would just mere seconds ago.
He saw her smile fade, giving way for a serious and worried expression aimed at them and Robert had rarely ever felt so relieved as when Carson announced the next guests. It gave him a good enough reason to tear his eyes away, breathe in deeply and stand up straighter again. It was not becoming for an earl to be slouching when greeting guests he had invited into his home, no matter how confused and hurt and troubled he felt beneath the surface.
But neither had been losing his temper, he scoffed inwardly.