He had had more than that one full tumbler of whiskey the night before, and he spent the entire morning bitterly regretting the repeated decision to let his sister refill it, again and again. That dull, pounding ache made itself known even before he opened his eyes when Bates came knocking on his bedroom door to wake him up early for his trip to the hospital, and he all but groaned before getting out of bed.

But, as Robert had rightfully observed, his valet was even more attentive than usual. Bates must have realised that the Earl had had maybe one glass too many the night before when he finally told him of the new developments upon getting changed for the night, and so he had come prepared with a glass of powder already in hand — handing it over wordlessly to Robert sitting on the edge of his bed with a disgruntled expression on his face. However, the valet could simply not stop himself from giving his employer a not-so-subtle knowing smirk when he handed him the glass back.

The mercilessly throbbing headache that was a result of his blatant over-indulgence subsided quickly enough with the powder Bates had brought; Robert almost felt as if he did not deserve that relief, not after inflicting the pain on himself in an effort to drown out his thoughts with his sister's expensive whiskey the night before. The pain that lingered afterwards, though, could only be attributed to his worries, and no powder in the world could help him with those.

What did help, though, was being with his wife. Robert found that just sitting next to her, just looking at her, just getting to hold her hand — it all helped take his mind off things. Even if just for a little while.

Sooner than he would have liked, a young black-haired nurse quietly walked into Cora's room in Harley Street and came to a halt a healthy distance off from the bed. She must be a new nurse, or maybe she was only responsible for caring for patients directly before or after surgery. Whichever option it was, neither Cora nor Robert had seen the young woman before.

Despite that, Robert and Cora both felt that she exuded quiet and somehow even comfort to some degree — something both were secretly very thankful for. Just as quietly as she had entered the room, the nurse said: "Good morning, Lord Grantham, Lady Grantham. I am here to take you to the operating theatre now, milady, if you are ready?"

Robert briefly looked up at the young woman standing in the middle of the room, tearing his gaze away from his wife, only to let it return quickly to her small, sleepy form next to him.

Cora was lying in bed with her hair still in that frightful excuse of a braid he had managed the night before with violently shaky hands. He had tried to calm down after the doctor had left, had tried to will his hands to cooperate, but they simply would not. And the braid that resulted in that was only marginally better than his very first attempt weeks ago.

She was tired, her eyes were only halfway opened, and she barely moved. But she smiled at him as he held her hand, his other continuously stroking her hair and cheek delicately. However, Robert knew his wife and saw how, even though she appeared calm on the outside, she was more than afraid of what would follow.

His voice not only laced with emotion but outright laden by it, he said: "It's alright. You'll be alright, you're in very good hands here. The doctors will help you and I will wait for you. I will be here when you return, I promise."

Cora became more alert when he said that, finally opening her eyes fully to look at him. She looked at him, her blue eyes locking with his like they had done countless times over the course of their marriage, and he saw nothing but adoration and love as she slowly reached out her hand to place it on his cheek, mirroring his caring gesture from seconds before.

"Robert, if thi-"

"No."

A lump began to form in his throat, tears started to well up in his eyes, and his cheeks began to burn — no doubt they must have been flaming red — the instant she started to speak those dreaded words. Robert's hands became clammy and his heart not only sank into the pits of his stomach, it plummeted there. She should not start saying things like that, not with what was about to happen to her. Memories flashed before his inner eye, memories of him trying to get those same words out not too long ago while lying in a pool of his own blood on the floor in their dining room, thinking it was his last chance to ever tell her how much he loved her.

"No, this is not it," he gave back, trying to keep his voice from trembling as he spoke softly to her. "You said it yourself, not too long ago, when I was on the floor with you holding me. We will not let this be it. We made it so far — you did! We are here, my dear, and the doctors are trying their very best to help you. Believe me, Cora, this is not it."

She looked at him, her hand stopping its slow caress of his cheek, and her soft smile turned into a slight frown. It was obvious that this was harder on her than she wanted to let on. With determination in her voice, she said just as quietly: "Still, darling. If this is it, I just want you to know how much I love you. And I need you to tell that to our girls, too; and our grandchildren. I love all of you so very, very much."

Robert gulped.

This was rare. Incredibly much so. His wife was always rather open in showing her affections — in gestures, looks and good deeds. But she rarely ever uttered those three words, and she never had to, because he knew she loved him from the start and she showed it frequently. Robert had always been the one to say it much more often than her. This only made the few times she did it all the more special.

Even in spite of that, despite the possibility of maybe never hearing those words pass through her lips, he did not want to hear her say it. Even though he loved her more than life itself. Or maybe he did not want to hear her say it just because of that.

Robert took a steadying breath and wiped at the single stray tear hanging at the corner of his eye. "We love you, too, and we want to have you with us for a while longer still. Don't give up the fight now."

"I don't want to give up," she said in that lovely American lilt he so adored. Her imploring eyes looked at him, they took him in and searched his features — what for, he did not know. Finally, her eyes focused on his and in the smallest voice Robert had ever heard, she whispered: "I am just so scared."

"Cora," he started to say, but he stopped himself when he saw her expression change subtly. She stopped hiding behind her mask of feigned strength that could truly fool anyone who did not know her as well as her husband did.

"I don't want to die yet, Robert."

He saw it in her eyes. The honesty. The fear.

Just then, when a shocked silence had fallen over Robert and he was fighting the tears even more than before, the nurse reminded them that she was there, clearing her throat quietly. She had been waiting quite patiently, trying to appear completely disinterested in the conversation between Cora and Robert, looking anywhere but at them.

The nurse came closer and gave them apologizing looks as she was beginning to push the bed out of the room. Still sitting in his chair, as if he was glued to the seat, his arm stretched out and his palm reached again for her hand above the thin sheet that was covering her frail body. His hands were shaky again, an accurate depiction of the state he was in; his confusion, and worry, and complete lack of calmness and serenity within. But when Cora looked away from their joined hands and back into his eyes, her fingers squeezing his encouragingly, sudden tranquillity and clarity came over him.

There was nothing he could say, nothing to respond to that. At least there was nothing that would help her, that would lessen her worries, that he could think of at that moment other than reassuring her of his unwavering love.

"Cora, I love you, my dearest. Never forget that. I love you."

She weakly squeezed his hand again when the nurse began to push her bed out, effectively pulling their hands apart as he had to watch them leave. His hand stayed in mid-air for a few seconds before it fell limply to his side.

Another nurse came in shortly thereafter and guided him to another area of the hospital, this one closer to the operating theatre. Rosamund had already been patiently waiting here for him, sitting on one of the wooden chairs pushed to the wall when they approached.

Robert had wanted to go to Harley Street alone, but his sister would hear none of it, insisting he should not be alone on a day like that. Mary and Edith would hopefully arrive on a train in the afternoon and until then, she was determined to keep him company. She had refused to intrude on his conversation with his wife, though. It had not felt right to impose, no matter how much she would have liked to tell her sister-in-law that things would be alright. She had a slight hunch about how worried Cora must have been.

The operation had barely started when Robert almost leapt out of the chair he had been occupying and instead began to pace the small waiting area. He looked at the ground beneath his feet, mumbling this and that, and his sister could only watch. She had no clue how to ease his mind or lessen his worries.

Rosamund was sure that if she had been granted more time with Marmaduke, and they were in Robert's and Cora's situation with her husband's life on the line, she would not be behaving any different from her dear brother. But that was not the case. She was worried about her sister-in-law, she was worried about her brother, and she was worried about her nieces. There was nothing she could do, she was not in their situation; she had no idea what to say or do other than trying to be there.

Robert paced the length of the intricately woven rug under his feet countless times, occasionally looking up at the clock on the wall, only to resume his strides once more.

Minutes passed, and then minutes turned into an hour. Time flew by, but to Robert, it felt as if it was crawling slower than the slowest snail on earth as he continued to pace back and forth.

Finally, Rosamund had enough. Quite sternly, she said: "Robert, come and take a seat. You can't help her by running Doctor Wallsom's carpet thin with all your pacing."

"I can't help her by sitting in that chair there, either," Robert retorted, sounding like a desperate and petulant child. Nevertheless, he listened to his sister's request and reclaimed his seat from that morning.

Rosamund tried to distract him from thinking about Cora's operation by engaging him in some gossipy talk, and yet another nurse came to bring them tea when it was nearing noon, but nothing helped get his spinning mind off the obvious.

When another hour had passed, he couldn't sit still any more and was about to begin pacing the waiting area again when a man in a white coat appeared out in the hall behind the glass doors. Even from afar, he strongly resembled the young Doctor Wallsom, and so Robert assumed this to be the man's father.

Robert's stomach turned, his ribcage seemed to tighten and tighten and he almost expected to implode any second now. Breathing became harder than ever before. The older doctor coming out alone could only mean one thing, Robert was sure of that — and it was not a good thing.

"Lord Grantham?" the older man greeted, waiting for Robert's mechanic nod in reply before continuing: "I'm Doctor Charles Wallsom, I was one of your wife's surgeons."

Rosamund immediately got up and joined her brother when she saw the man approaching, standing close to him as she waited with bated breath herself. When Robert did not speak, she took it upon herself to reply.

He wanted to reply, he truly did, but he just couldn't. His mouth was insanely dry, his tongue seemingly glued to the roof of his mouth, and he couldn't get the words out. Not that they made much sense inside his head, either way.

"Hello, Doctor. Is there any news on my sister-in-law?"

"Indeed, there is news. We just finished Lady Grantham's surgery, she will be brought back to her room soon. My fellow surgeons should have finished closing the last incision by now. I just wanted to come out and tell you in person as soon as possible."

"Tell us what exactly, please?"

Robert sounded as desperate as he felt. And he certainly looked it, too. All colour had left his face, and Rosamund could sense him shaking beside her.

"The tumour was bigger than initially expected and we had to extend the operation by over an hour, as you might have noticed. It was very complicated, but we are optimistic that we got it all. Of course, she will have to stay here for a few days at least and we will run the tests again to be certain, but we do not expect any further complications. Your wife should make a full recovery in due time."

Robert heaved a very deep breath, allowing a lot more air to pass his lungs suddenly. This was all he had not dared to even dream of hearing. His mind had been imagining the worst scenes possible, one gloomier than the one before. So many scenarios had filled his head and kept him from finding sleep for weeks now, but none of them had included the doctor saying these words.

"I know that this is all a lot to take in. My son and I will come and talk to you at a later time, but for now, that is all I can tell you."

Robert suddenly remembered where he was and who he was talking to. After a few long seconds, he extended his hand to the man only slightly older than him. A relieved smile crept on his features as he shook the other man's hand and said: "Thank you, doctor, truly."

As he watched the doctor walk away, the world around him began to turn and he felt quite light-headed all of a sudden. The low noise that had ebbed at the edges of his consciousness for so long now suddenly increased in volume, now all but screaming at him. Robert's head felt as if it was about to burst any second, but it didn't. Instead, it all just stopped all of a sudden. There was complete and utter silence in his mind, a sensation he had never experienced before. His vision got increasingly blurry and the light-headedness turned into full-on dizziness. More subconsciously than not, he sank into the chair just behind him, leaning his head back at the wall.

The last thing he saw was his sister's worried face appearing in his already restricted and blurred field of vision.