Chapter Seventeen

December 1890

He angled the small box in the crook of his arm, the folds of his overcoat cocooning it snuggly, and he lifted his chin to see above the mass of other people. He'd never been to Harrods before, had never had an occasion to venture out whilst in London to anywhere except parties, concerts, and the club with Papa. He'd driven past it, of course, and yet he never wondered what it was like inside. But he'd told Cora he would buy her new scent, and so he did. Papa had very gently suggested this morning that Robert simply send for the bottle to be delivered, but of course that wouldn't do. After all, he wanted to smell it first, to see if it was something that he and, more importantly Cora, would actually like. Not to mention the thought of his wife's scent being the same as his sister's still put him a bit off. But now as the heat of irritation crept up and around his woolen coat collar, Robert knew that he likely would never come here again. He'd send for anything Cora asked for.

Robert cleared his throat irritatedly as his eyes searched out his escape. Tall chairs with green leather seats lined the glass cases that formed long aisles, a red carpet in between. The glass gleamed around him, and he ignored the desire to glance left and right, to peer at what the other people were so consumed with examining as the shop assistants pulled out item after item. Again he scanned over the sea of hats and at last caught the dull gray glare of the outside world. He set his course. Only a matter of fifteen more feet before he was free and in his waiting carriage, and then only a few minutes more to Belgrave Square.

He nodded his pardon to a man who he was glad to see nodded in return, and then he maneuvered around two women who were stopped at a particularly large glass case, pointing at stationary. At last he was nearer the doors, nearer Brompton Road's click of horse hooves, coach wheels, and people's frosted voices. He was nearer and nearer, but then a bright movement to his right caught his attention.

Robert allowed himself to pause. Christmas cards. Towers and layers of propped up Christmas cards covered the breadth and width of a long glass display case, a small woman working the counter behind it. He grinned; the cheery display was rather a warm spot in spite of the icy winds coming from the doors. And it was nearly Christmas, wasn't it? Only nine more days. He wondered if husbands traditionally bought Christmas cards for their wives as one may buy his wife a Valentine's card. He wasn't sure. He'd not been a husband last Christmas. He chuckled to himself. And next Christmas? I'll be a father.

When a woman's sleeve brushed past him, he realized he still stood in the middle of the aisle; he readjusted the small box in his arm, his other arm going up to his hat, and moved closer.

The creams and reds and bits of ribbons and lace plastered to each little greeting reminded him of Christmases he'd spent as a child, thick, printed wrapping papers strewn about the library on Christmas morning. He chuckled to himself as he looked at the little troop of children illustrated on the front of so many of the cards, clad in their pajamas or in their winter coats. On one, two little girls held candles up to their cherubic faces, a jolly St Nicholas peering through their window pane. And on another, three children's eyes glistened uplifted to the starry night sky, and open booklets of sheet music were held tightly in their round and rosy hands. Hark the voices! Angels sing. Glory on high to Heaven's King, he read silently, and smiled. Cora would like that one, he thought. She'd like any of the ones with little children. He reached forward and picked it up.

"Do excuse me."

Robert startled to attention and looked down to his left, from where the soft voice came. The woman, older and rather fragile looking, held up a little card, but took a small step to the side.

"I believe I must be in your way," her voice trembled kindly.

"Not at all," he assured her with a smile, which she returned. He watched as she went back to her shopping, trumpeting each card she picked up in and then out as he'd seen his grandmother do when she tried to clearly see illustrations and words. He watched as she selected another, and another, and nodded to herself, before slowly she turned her gaze to him. He realized only now that he'd been staring.

"Are you choosing cards today as well? They seem to have quite a selection." She put down one with young boys on a sled and chose another. This one had a kitten. "Or has your wife asked you to wait here for her?" Her head tipped to the wrapped box he held in the cradle of his arm and he caught the glimmer of a smirk.

"Oh," he chuckled. "No. My wife is at home."

"I see. I see." Again, another card, but her wrinkled eyes looked over at the card he still held, and then came back up to him. "With the children?"

It took him a moment to understand her. "No," he said at last and shook his head, not really chuckling this time. With one last look at it, he replaced the card with the three little children. "We haven't any. At least, not quite." He cleared his throat, embarrassment warming his cheeks.

But the older woman only laughed softly. He watched as she held out a card to the woman behind the counter and whispered a small, "I believe this is the one." And then as she exchanged money for a tiny bag across the counter. He thought of helping her with it, thought of asking if she needed help finding her carriage or way home, but before he could make up his mind, she'd turned back to him with a smile.

"Goodbye, young man. I hope you and your wife have a happy Christmas. And the … not quite, too."

In spite of the heat flooding his face, he laughed at that and nodded. "Indeed. And the same to you."

"Can I help you with anything, sir?" the woman behind the small counter asked him, her smile stiff and practiced.

He blinked at her and shook his head.

"No. No. Thank you."

He shifted Cora's perfume in his arm again and made his way to one of the sets of doors, bracing himself for the frigid cold.

. . .

It took only a moment to find Jensen parked along the road. Grateful, Robert nodded in thanks to the coachman who opened the carriage door for him to climb inside. Now at least sheltered from the biting wind, he covered his knees with the fur throw as they lurched forward, and Robert sighed a frosty cloud into the air.

He'd read it was "one of the coldest Decembers on record" in this morning's paper. Parts of Lincolnshire had seen nine inches of snow; the Thames was frozen for nearly a mile south of Kew. The moment Papa departed for the Lords, Robert had taken it upon himself to cable Jarvis. Someone would need to be sure to assess Downton's dozens of windows, ancient stones, and small series of piping fitted out to the kitchens. He recalled the headache of two years ago when the stones cracked after a serious and unexpected frost. They'd hardly had enough to scrape together to mend it, then. Of course now, thanks to Cora, whatever may need mending this year could not only be fixed but then also made better.

He sighed back into the seat as the carriage turned into the square. While the cold didn't seem to dissuade anyone those handful of streets over at Harrods, here in Belgravia no one seemed to be moving about at all. He buttoned his coat tighter, pulled the collar ever closer around his jaw, and gathering up the small package, waited for Jensen to open the door before he descended the carriage and headed up the icy steps to Grantham House.

Just like he'd done with Jenson, he nodded in thanks to Peters who let him inside, and he distinctly felt as the butler closed the door behind them. It kept out some of the cold, but oh the house was still so cold. Frozen. And just as he opened his mouth to ask the butler to light a fire in his bedroom, he heard the tap of heels come into the foyer. He twisted towards her.

"Rosamund?" He lifted his chin. "I wasn't expecting you. Is Marmaduke here?" He gave the small package to the butler and then divested himself of his hat, his gloves, and at last his wool overcoat which a footman bundled into his arms. "Have you come for dinner?"

Rosamund still did not greet him in return.

"Brave of you to get out in this weather. Where's Papa? It's got to be nearing five o'clock now, hasn't it? I'm sure he's nearly frozen solid."

"He's still at the Lords." Her eyes watched as the footman retreated with his clothing. As the butler, too, left them, carrying away Cora's little box, and Robert felt himself tense.

"Ah, so … did you need something?" He paused. "Is it the wallpaper book? I didn't imagine it would be in quite so soon."

He began to walk toward her, toward the drawing room, even motioning her to turn back to it, to come and sit for while else would she come — but she remained still.

"Is there a fire laid? Would you like some tea? Or have you had some?"

"Thank you, but no."

"No? Then, Rosamund, what is it?" He tempered the edge in his next question. "Why have you come if you won't speak?"

"It's hard to find the words."

"What—"

"For I'm afraid it's rather a grim errand," she answered, and she held out a small folded paper to him. "It was sent to my house earlier, but I feel it should've been sent here, instead. To you."

"A telegram?"

His sister nodded, and then whispered, "I am sorry."

He groaned, taking the paper from her and bracing for the news of any leaks. "I pray it isn't Jarvis. I'm not sure Papa's mood can take the blow." He knew he shouldn't have tempted fate the way he had with his thoughts earlier.

To: Lady Rosamund Painswick at 9 Chester Square, Ldn

It wasn't Jarvis, he realized. He glanced up again to his sister who stood silently before him, and then back down at the telegraph operator's script.

C has suffered a loss. Doctor has been and remains. She is well. Mama.

But that … that didn't make sense. Again, he looked at his sister, and again she stared back at him.

"What does this mean?"

Rosamund opened her mouth, and then blinked. "As I said, I thought you should know. And–"

"-But know what? I don't understand."

"I am sorry."

"So you said." He read the short words again, the pencil scrawlings across the small creased paper: C has suffered a loss.

"Robert."

He looked up from the paper and blinked at his sister who sighed quietly.

"It means she's no longer pregnant."

He felt a flash of immediate anger, and he bit his tongue. No. He wanted to lash out at her, at his sister who stood quietly before him, but a small amount of logic grounded him. His sister was not to blame. Rosamund was not to blame for this, for bringing him this. And more than that, it couldn't be right. They were misinterpreting Mama's message. They must be. She'd been perfectly well.

He folded the telegram back in half, and then looking about the foyer in which they stood, he shook away the unexpected sting in his nose and at his eyes.

"This has to be a mistake." He flicked the offending paper about. "Mama surely means something else."

"No. I don't think she does."

He scoffed. "But it doesn't make sense."

"I know how you must feel–"

"-Do you?" he snapped, avoiding Rosamund's sympathetic gaze. He put the telegram in his trousers pocket. "Do you, indeed?"

"Yes. I do."

"But she was well four days ago. It can't happen as quickly as that."

"It can."

The one small logical part inside of him was quickly dissipating. "She can't have. I must go." He pushed past his sister and walked toward the stairs, "You'll tell Papa for me, yes? I'll ring for Watson. I'll need to book a ticket–"

"- A ticket? To go to Downton? Robert, do be serious." Rosamund was looking up at him as he began to climb. "I am sorry. Truly. But going is a mistake. Besides Cora's need for privacy, you won't be able to find a train running to Downton or Thirsk, or even York this evening. It's icy. It's snowy. Half the trains aren't running at all."

Robert ignored her and continued up the stairs. "I'll find one."

"Robert–"

"- I won't have Cora alone." Robert swallowed down the pressing panic he felt rising in his chest. "I won't leave her to bear this alone."

. . .

He no longer cared that his begging verged on rudeness. "There has to be something."

The gas light sputtered at Robert's eyeline, and he looked down at the desktop again, his breath fogging the caged glass that separated him from the ticketer searching clipboards of papers and smaller chalkboards of times and trains. "I'm sorry, sir. I see nothing else north this evening."

"Nothing at all? Please, check again. I realize that Downton is quite a small station. But what of Thirsk or Ripon–"

"-Sir,"

"Or York. Surely there's something available here to York." He looked over at the large clock face in the stonework. Nearing six-thirty.

"As I said before, I am holding the timetable for every train departing this station for the rest of the evening, and I can assure you, sir, we have nothing."

"I'm not sir," he felt himself boom. "I am Viscount Downton. And it is most imperative that I am home tonight."

Again, the gas light sputtered as the man blinked up at him. "Oh. I — Y-Yes. That is, yes, milord. I will … I will review it again. But do understand –"

"Again." Robert looked away at the brickwork and columns of Victoria Station, men and women wrapped in all manner of heavy winter attire hurrying to their various platforms, and his chest ached. He pushed out a breath of envy and turned back to the window.

"Anything?"

"Allow me to–" the man gestured to the booths at either side of them. "Excuse me."

Robert sighed again and rubbed his glove against his face as the ticketer rushed away. Even in spite of the cold, Robert was beginning to perspire at his neck and hairline.

"My lord?"

He looked over at Watson and bobbed his brows high and hopeful.

"There was nothing. King's Cross was suggested. Shall I tell Jensen?"

"No. No, not yet. This man here," he waved at the empty window, "is reviewing the availability once more."

Robert craned his neck to look further into the dim booth and saw the movement of the man's shoulders as he spoke to someone else. Robert rocked back to his heels as he saw the man turn and reapproach.

"Good evening, milord." And now another ticketer was in the little booth, his nose red from the freezing air. Robert leaned in to hear him better. "I do apologize, but there is simply nothing that can be done."

Robert glanced at his valet and back again. "And what of Kings Cross? Do you believe any to be running from there? To Downton? To York? To Thirsk?"

The red-nosed man opened and closed his mouth like a fish. It was the younger man who spoke, instead. "We can cable the other stations. Arrange something as quickly as we're able, but—"

"—Please. Please do." Robert nodded at them, and fingering inside his breast pocket took out his wallet, but ignoring the folded paper that fell to his feet. He put uncounted money on the counter and pushed it towards them. "Anything you can do, please."

He didn't pay any more attention to them to know if they took his money or not. He turned away, closer to Watson. "Be sure my cases are in the carriage. I'll wait here to be certain we have a seat. If there isn't room for both of us, I'll buy a ticket for you on the next available train tomorrow. Thank you, Watson."

The man nodded, but before he turned, held out the worn page. "My lord, you've dropped this."

Robert knew what it was. He knew, for he could see the intertwined C and R peeking through the back of the paper. Names.

He took the paper and, slipping it back in his overcoat pocket, watched his valet nod. Watson pulled his coat tighter around himself and walked off again toward the street where they knew Jensen waited. Another wind blew through and the sweat that had begun to line Robert's hat and collar felt like ice.

He watched, and felt, as another engine pulled away, and he felt a stab of unfounded anger at every man on board, going to their destinations. Going home.

He turned back to where the rows of windows stood, beneath the sign marked 'Tickets' and scanned the number of heads bobbing in the little windows. He cast his eyes over the other people around him, too; a woman was near him, holding the hand of a little boy who glanced up at him when he felt his stare. Robert shook his head away and frowned. Not quite, he and the old woman had said just a few hours before, and his stomach turned over itself at what it now meant. Not quite.

Again back to the windows he strode. He pushed past a man at the window now without bothering to say "excuse me."

"Has there been a return cable?"

The ticketer looked between Robert and the other man. "One moment, milord."

He knew he was being rude again; he knew he should apologize, but his chest felt too tight. The list of names in his breast pocket, too sharp.

He stepped away from the window, pacing a bit, and spun around as the red-nosed man came nearer. He held a paper not unlike the telegram crushed in Robert's trousers.

"They have one, milord. Departs in one half hour. We've sent word that you will take it."

"Yes," Robert nodded.

"Kings Cross to York, Lord Downton," he passed the paper to him. "Departs at seven o'clock. Great Northern Railway. Go to the third ticket window. They'll sort you there, milord."

He read the same words that the man said scribbled upon the little paper. "Thank you. Very much." He gripped the paper tighter. "Thank you."

"Of course," was all the man had time to say before Robert whirled around. It would take nearly half an hour to get to Kings Cross. He picked up his pace, pushing past crowds toward where he assumed his coachman would be stationed on Victoria Street, his eyes in search of Jensen and Watson. He stepped onto the pavement and immediately felt himself slide on the ball of his foot: ice.

It sent a shock of more anger to his limbs, and he shuddered and muttered a curse beneath his breath. It left his lips in a frozen cloud.

His nose ran. Cold wind stung his eyes. He narrowed them and saw Jensen coming toward him in the dark.

"How quickly can we get to Kings Cross Station?"

Jensen's eyes widened. "I can't be sure, my lord. If we drive through Covent Garden, perhaps it'll cut the time. Or up to Hyde Park…"

"Let us try. Try anything, Jensen. Watson?"

His valet was beside them now, and Robert handed him the telegram and then opened the carriage door. "As soon as I leave the carriage, carry my cases after me. I won't wait for you." Again, he fumbled for his wallet and put it in his valet's hand. "Take money for a ticket. Enough for you, enough for myself."

They clamored into the coach and this time Robert didn't bother to cover his lap with the fur. He sat on the edge of the creaking leather bench and held to the strap by the door, letting the carriage rock him side to side. It was nearing seven by Robert's pocket watch but dark as midnight. Robert saw frozen sleet begin to fall as they passed the lamplights on the street and again his heart felt too heavy to beat.

The silence in the carriage, and indeed on the oddly sparse streets, left too much room for thoughts. He pushed away images of her as they passed beneath another lamppost, an image of her sitting in her bed with her breakfast, sipping her tea. An image of her grinning through her nausea, imaging caring for their little infant.

He swallowed and looked to his knees and then up again to the ceiling of the trap that bumped along. Pushing it away. He had to push it all away.

They were nearing the station, but not before the sleet he'd noticed moments ago had suddenly turned to snow. He glanced again at his pocket watch — he'd have to run.

He burst out of the carriage the moment Jensen had pulled the reins, again his feet slipping quickly on the ice he hadn't realized had formed on the sidewalk. He paused and took two breaths and then, bracing himself, rushed onward to the ticket counter.

Third window. He repeated to himself, pushing past others. Third window. She'd been so happy.

"Lord Downton?"

He panted as he reached the counter, pushing money for the fare he'd had the foresight to have Watson count ahead of time to the attendant. The man nodded and took it from him.

"You've just made it," he confirmed, giving Robert a little yellow ticket. "Platform Four. Car Two. Quickly, sign here."

Robert nearly snatched the pen from the man and scrawled out his name on the ticket, not even thinking to include the title he'd used to leverage this favor.

Robert Crawley.

"Thank you." He pushed the pen back to the man, ink dripping on the white cuff of his sleeve, and broke off into an undignified jog toward the platforms, his eyes scanning all signage as he hoped he ran toward the correct platform.

There was whistling, and Robert's stomach dropped. There.

"Wait!" He picked up pace, waving the little ticket above him, but ignoring the cold that bit at his cheeks. A porter stepped away from the train. "Car Two!" he yelled, and Robert pushed himself the final ten feet and to the car's open door. The porter had to walk alongside the now moving train to close it; and Robert fell, breathing heavily, into his seat.

He'd left Watson and his cases. And God only knew what he'd do once he reached York in two hours, if the snow and ice allowed such a thing.

He unbuttoned his coat, his chest still heaving, and he pulled at the collar at his neck. He couldn't think of it now, not before he'd made it closer — not until he could … no. He'd not think of it. Clearing his throat, Robert sat up straighter and held the ticket tightly between his thumb and forefinger, like a talisman.

. . .

The engine hissed to a stop at York Station, and Robert pressed his face against the glass of his compartment to read the numerals on the royal blue clocks above, checking his pocket watch against it. His breath fogged the glass.

Ten-thirty. The trip had taken three and a half hours.

His body aching in all his joints, his stomach tying itself into agitated knots, Robert ran a hand over his eyes and then readied himself to make a running start to, what he hoped would be, a waiting cab. He pulled his woolen collar closely around his throat and pulled his hat down, more securely. He closed his fist around his ticket, and then he bounded onto the platform.

He had no cases, no valet, not anything to wait for, and so he easily led the other travelers down the stairs and to the street, passing under the blue clock he'd read mere moments before.

He slipped once on a step – ice – and gripped the handrail. He paused, took a breath, and realized out before him, on the ground, was much, much more snow than in London. How hadn't he noticed on the journey here? Was he paying attention to anything at all as the train moved at a crawl? Oh, please. He stood and made his way down the final few steps. A cab. A cab.

He rounded the corner under the lamplights, watching with some anxiety that snow was still gently falling around him, and he lifted his eyes to try to find the outline of the black shapes of hansom cabs lining the corner opposite the station. Wind blew through his coat – bitter, bitter wind – and Robert shuddered and closed his eyes at the sting.

When he reopened them, he saw four. Only four cabs, the wet pavement around them reflecting the gas lamps in a strange warm color in the frozen air.

Hearing the distant echoes of the other people now descending the stairs in the station behind him moved him forward, going to the second cab and peering up at the man sitting high in the driver's seat. "Downton Village?"

"To what?"

Robert shouted louder, "Downton Village? Downton Abbey, please."

"Hellfire!" the man shouted back down. "This time o'night?"

"Please–" he began again, but the man was already shaking his head.

"Only going so far as Haxby!"

Robert felt his back begin to ache and he spun to the third cab, rushing toward it.

"Can I 'elp, sir?"

"Please," Robert began, noticing now that people were moving about them, some of them climbing into the first hansom, some climbing into carriages that were awaiting them. "I must get home. Tonight. I will pay you for your troubles, you can be sure. Please."

"And where's 'ome, then? Can't very well take ya' without the knowing."

"It's Downton, please."

"Downton Village? But ya' won't make it there until after midnight! Better for you to find a pub! I can take you to The Golden Fleece–"

"No. No, I cannot stay. I must get home tonight. I will pay you, as I said." He knew the desperation was creeping into his voice, but he didn't have the energy left to care. "I know it is far, and I will compensate you for it and put you in a room at the pub. Or indeed the Abbey itself–"

"-The Abbey? You mean, you live at … Downton Abbey?"

Robert swallowed and stepped closer. "Yes, as I said, it's important."

The man only blinked down at him now. Another hansom cab had pulled away.

"Please," his voice cracked. "My wife is ill."

"Lord Downton?" Even from high on the seat, Robert could hear his small, stunned whisper.

Robert nodded. "Yes. I'm Lord Downton."

"Alright. I'll be taking ya'. Git'up, then. Come on."

The knots that had been twisting in Robert's stomach all slackened, and with the relief came a wave of exhaustion that Robert was not expecting. "You will? Truly?"

"I will, yeah. Up you get."

"What – what can I possibly do to thank you?" Robert shook his head. "You will stay at the Abbey. And … and I will pay you, of course–"

"-The name's Yardley, milord. You won't know me, but I do know a bit of you."

"Yardley?" He swallowed emotion away. "But–I … Mrs Yardley–"

"One and the same. My sister worked at the Abbey when you were just the young lord. The cook. She was a difficult old shrew; not much could please her. But you did." Robert thought he saw the man smile. "Right fond of you. Right until she died."

"Oh."

"Well, c'mon!" Mr Yardley tapped his whip on top of the cab. "Let's get you to Lady Downton, hm?"

"Thank you, truly. Truly. Thank you." Nodding, his eyes stinging, but this time not from the cold, Robert managed to climb into the hansom, and, ignoring the flannel folded on the bench, he leaned his head against the door and choked back a sudden and unbidden emotion he had never felt before.

. . .

Oh. Oh, it had snowed here.

The moonlight's reflection upon the snow illuminated every familiar turn, tree, hill and monument as the cab at last rattled and jostled through the gates of his home, and his heart ached at it.

He'd wanted Cora to see Downton in the snow. He'd wanted her to see the peaks and spikes and spindles of the Abbey glistening with it – sparkling. He'd wanted to take her to Heaven's Gate and look down over the expanse of their grounds, to see the tiny, careful footprints of the wildlife at the edge of the wood. He'd been daydreaming of it for weeks now, for it was so beautiful in the snow. Terribly, terribly beautiful.

The wheels of the hansom slowly crunched their way to a stop at the doors, and his pulse now racing, Robert didn't wait for the driver to open the door for him. He pushed his way out and turned to him. The man's face was bright red as he climbed from the seat.

"Please, Mr Yardley," he showed the man through the hedge to the servant's quarters where Robert knew a hallboy would be sleeping. "Please, come with me. I'll wake someone. You'll stay here. Your horse, too."

They stepped through the icy gravel and into the dark servants' courtyard, Mr Yardley rushing to catch up to his pace. Robert knocked impatiently at the entrance until a young hallboy, a boy Robert had never even seen before, slowly opened it and gasped.

"Milord?"

And Robert burst through. "Wake someone. This man needs broth. A bed. His horse needs tending to. Go. Now!"

"Y-yes, milord!"

"I will see to it that you've been taken care of, but I must –"

Mr Yardley nodded. "Go on, then."

He did not wait any further. He ran. His legs felt frozen as they moved up the servants' stairs and as he pushed through the green baize door and into the Great Hall.

He blinked into the light. Confused.

"My lord?"

"Carson," Robert looked around him, his heart now beating even more furiously to see others awake. "Lady Downton? My God. Is she all right?"

"My lord, it's … the doctor's only just left … I believe … my lord? We weren't expecting you. Shall I fetch Mr Walters?"

"No, no –" he was on the stairs now. "A man is downstairs - a Mr Yardley, Carson. Please see to him!" And he was taking two at a time.

He was nearly there. To her. To Cora.

His nose felt as if it were on fire, thawing, but he ignored it. His hat and gloves and coat felt heavy and now nearly too warm, but he ignored it. He was on the gallery. He was rushing toward the bedroom he'd now also claimed as his own. To her. To his wife.

And just as he reached her door, he stopped.

With his hand on the knob he found … he found he couldn't take it in his hand.

That unbidden, strange emotion burned away in the bridge of his nose, and he swallowed it away. He cleared his throat, forcing it down, and he closed his eyes.

Cora. He did not want her alone. And so he opened the door.

He wasn't sure what he expected when he entered her room. The blue of her space was warm, as it always was this time of night, bathed in firelight. The golden threads of the drapes and the peachy hue of the duvet flickered as if in spite of the stillness and quiet. And then there was Cora, the only dark spot in the whole of the space.

He tried to breathe to catch his breath, but the air was thick, and in his heavy overcoat that he had not paused to remove, Robert felt immediately overheated.

He watched as his wife slowly moved her head along her headboard, a delayed reaction to his quiet entrance; he watched as his wife slowly brought her eyes to him standing there, just inside her room; and he watched as the recognition slowly changed her features.

"Robert?"

He barely heard it. She whispered it so quietly that he wasn't sure it made any sound at all, but he felt it. He pushed himself forward to move toward her, to move around her bed, to place his hat and worried little ticket on her bedside drawer. He knelt beside her, and he ignored the way she furrowed her brows and shook her head.

A dark mat of her hair was stuck to the headboard.

"What are you doing here?"

"Mama sent word—"

"She shouldn't have done that."

He gathered strength in order to hide the hurt he knew would be in his voice. He'd traveled the length of England to be here with her, to kneel beside her. "Cora–"

"She shouldn't have bothered you."

"Bothered me?" He watched her as she closed her eyes, her jaw tightening, and he breathed through the emotion aching in his chest. "Do you hear yourself?"

He brought a gloved hand to her arms that she held tightly to herself, and he gently squeezed the forearm closest to him. "Shouldn't I be told when you're ill?"

"I told her to leave you be. To let you enjoy London."

"While you were suffering here?" Her chin dipped down to her chest, and Robert swallowed. "And … it wasn't me to whom she sent the telegram. It was Rosamund. And Rosamund felt I should know."

She opened her eyes at that, and she brought them to him, wide and watery, her mouth agape. "Rosamund?" Oh, she was pale. "Why would your mother do that? Why would she tell her?"

"I think," Robert adjusted himself on his knees, and he exhaled. "She knew I'd worry."

"But there's nothing." His throat felt tighter at the thickness of her voice. It had dropped an octave. She turned her face away from him; she closed her eyes again. "There's nothing left to worry over now."

He could hear the coming tears in the tremble of her words, and he lifted his chin to see her better. For her to hear him better. "You are not 'nothing' to me."

He felt her body rise, stiffen, and he felt as she exhaled a shaking breath, and then the dam broke. She cried, shuddering, and not knowing what to do, he moved from the floor and sat upon the bed to hold her. Shushing her.

"It's gone," he heard her repeat in his ear. "It's gone."

He stilled the tremble of his own chin as he pressed it to her head, to her soft hair. He felt her fingers at his coat, holding him just as tightly as he held her, and instead of it sinking him further and further under the small grief he felt, it buoyed him above the surface. And his trembling ceased. Her thinner arms were around his back, and he pressed his still-gloved hand to her shoulder blade, steadying her.

Her puffs of "I'm sorry" moved the hair behind his ear, and he held tighter.

"No," he shook his head against her. "Don't apologize to me." He held her closer to his chest. "You needn't apologize."

"I do."

"No," he repeated. "It's I who should be sorry. What you've had to endure."

She at last pushed away from his arms and wiped furiously at her cheeks, sniffling, shaking her head. "Please," she wiped her nose. "Don't be. It … it's done now. It's done. So quickly. Like it hadn't ever been real." He watched her fight away another wave of tears. "Oh, I've ruined it, haven't I? Everyone's happiness."

"No —" He didn't know what else to say to her then, and so he sat with her, holding her hand, stroking the back of her thumb.

"And mine, I…" she breathed in and out, pushing it away again, he saw, before choking out, "I did so want to be a mother."

"And you will be," he lifted her hand, and it felt cold and clammy when he pressed it to his lips. "Of course you will be."

She nodded, but she'd begun weeping again.

"I–" He tipped his head to meet her eye. "-I want to have a child with you. " He let her cry more, but took both her hands now in his own. "And we will," he continued gently, squeezing her fingers. "You and I will have children."

He kissed her hands again, his own eyes now casting streaks of watery light across his vision.

And she nodded again, whispering, "A nursery full?"

Oh. His heart constricted at the tender hope in her quiet voice, at the tender hope etched in her frown. "Yes," he answered. "A nursery full." And he meant it. He felt it.

But then there was nothing else he could think to say to her. And in looking at the dark circles beneath her eyes, he wondered if there could truly be anything he could say to assuage any of the pain she felt.

And the sweltering warmth in the room was back. And the closeness. The stillness.

Her head dipped low again, avoiding his gaze, and he saw her shoulders rise when she took in a long breath.

"And if I can't?"

He furrowed his brow. "Can't?"

"Have a baby." He'd never heard her voice so flat. So lifeless. "Fulfill our duty. What if I can't do it?"

He watched his gloved fingers move at her white knuckles, unexplored fears blooming across his thoughts. He … he didn't know.

"It took nearly a year for that one and … and now it's gone." He felt the way she steadied her emotion, and it set a strange ache behind his ribs. "What do we do if this is it?"

He lifted his chin and looked around the blue of her space, at the firelight, at the twinkling gold threads of her duvet and curtains. And he thought of the snow falling outside her windows. "If we can't have a son," he took in a breath. "Or, indeed, any children — well, there is young Patrick."

She didn't nod.

"Downton and the title will remain as one, in no small part, thanks to you." Still, she didn't move.

"And…" he continued, but this time more quietly. For what he was saying was new to him, and frightening, for it was perhaps the most honest he'd ever been with himself in his entire life. "You and I will have each other."

At last her eyes moved to his, but this time they were not quite so full of tears. Instead they searched his own until he felt her fingers grasp the glove he wore. "What?"

"Did you know it's snowing out?"

She blinked at him, and he held to her fingers.

"And I've thought of little else but showing you Downton covered in snow. And having Christmas here with you. We play," he swallowed, "that is, the family traditionally plays The Game that I think you and I will be quite good at. And while I won't be dishonest, I do very much want to have an heir, to have a child," he readjusted her hands in his and looked at her, fully, to be sure she heard him, "What I want most is to spend all of my remaining Christmases with you. You and I. Together."

"So, we'll have each other?" she repeated softly.

He nodded at her. "Yes," he whispered, his voice breaking at last. "We'll have each other to love." His chin trembled, but now he didn't push it away. He let it come. He let it all come: the tears, the ache, the love he felt for her that all this pain somehow only made ever stronger.

And he felt Cora draw her arms around him, her fingers clinging to the folds in his coat, and her cold nose touching at the bare place at his throat. "Oh, Robert." Her voice high and soft, quivering, sent another tremor of sorrow through him. "Always."