An uneasy silence fell over the room after Edith left; it settled down like a thin, almost gauzy veil flittering down to the ground. They hid behind it to avoid talking about everything that was going through their minds.
Rosamund had told them about Robert's collapse earlier in the day, and Mary saw that her aunt had been right in all her concerns. The man sitting at her mother's bedside wasn't the same man she talked to when they refurnished the sitting room at Downton ahead of Christmas. The joy she saw that day, the excitement; it was nowhere to be found. Her father had been in high spirits when they returned from America; had played with the grandchildren even more than before, as if he was trying to make up for his wife's inability due to her illness. Mary had admired that man, the man who had recalled memories of times gone by so fondly at Christmas, who had reminded all of them about the good times they had all spent together. But in that jolly man's stead, she now saw a man so close to reaching his ultimate breaking point; a man walking the narrow tightrope of life, already turning his back on everything else he had always held near and dear. At that moment, as she watched him sitting there in the uncomfortable wooden chair, all she saw was a deeply troubled, heartbroken old man. Had her Mama not come through the surgery alive, she was almost certain her father would have followed her very soon.
Time seemed to stand still as Mary and Robert both sat on either side of Cora's bed, each holding onto one of her cold hands. It was as if father and daughter both thought this silence would be able to shield them from whatever was going on, as if it could protect them from the distress talking about the elephant in the room would cause. The silence shielded them from the world outside, the darkness that awaited there. The silence protected them from voicing their concerns. None of this was final, just as long as they only stayed silent.
Neither of them took notice of the nurse who came in once to bring two blankets and a pillow for the night and took their tea tray away to replace it with some fresh glasses and a carafe of water.
Robert watched her sleeping form, watched how her eyelashes grazed her cheeks and how her nostrils flared slightly with each shallow breath she took. He watched how her chest rose and fell barely noticeably underneath the thick blankets and he tried to prepare himself for the coming conversation with the doctor once she was awake.
After a while, however, Mary could not take the silence any longer. She interrupted his spinning thoughts, right as they were on the verge of drifting into the darkest, gloomiest corners of his subconscious again, and hesitantly asked: "Papa?"
After a while, quite absent-mindedly and without even looking at her, he replied: "Yes?". He was far too occupied keeping his vigilant watch over Cora to notice how his daughter was trying to come up with the right words to use.
"I've been meaning to tell you-"
Her father tore his gaze away from his wife's ashen face to look at Mary when she stopped herself mid-sentence and did not continue. He saw that whatever she was about to tell him was weighing heavily on her mind.
"Yes, what is it, dear?" he asked softly, sitting a bit more upright.
Refusing to look her father in the eye, Mary instead focused on the feeling of her mother's cold hand in hers and replied: "Henry came to speak to me a few days after you left for London."
"Did he now?" Robert grumbled, not entirely able to hide both, his surprise and discontent. A small part of him had hoped Henry wouldn't talk to her. A small part of him had wanted to seek revenge by having Mary very publicly divorce him after all the neglect and humiliation his daughter had to suffer in recent months. "Good for him."
"Yes, he did. And we talked. Calmly. Eye to eye."
Raising his eyebrows in surprise at this turn of events he had not anticipated, he inquired: "Well, what did he say?"
Mary hesitated with her reply and it was apparent to Robert that talking about this was not easy for her. She seemed somewhat afraid. What of, he did not know.
Finally, just when he was about to open his mouth and dig deeper, she said: "He agreed to the divorce, Papa."
"So he does know what's good for him," Robert huffed. "What did he say exactly?"
If his reply puzzled her, then she did not let it show. He had never told her that he had gone to Henry's room on Christmas and talked to him. Maybe he should have told her, it could have made for an easier time for her. The week leading up to his and Cora's departure from Yorkshire, though, had proven to be enough of a challenge for him as it was, even without thinking of his daughter's failed marriage, and it had simply slipped his mind.
"That he realised that he behaved childishly, that he should have paid more attention, and that he wasn't a good-enough husband and father."
"And he came to that conclusion after weeks of hiding away in a room why exactly?"
Mary was still avoiding his gaze, refusing to even look in his direction. Instead, she averted her gaze from her mother's hand in hers to focus on her breathing. She hoped that the slow and steady pace at which her mother's chest rose and fell beneath the covers might calm her own quickly beating heart.
"He told me that you had come to talk to him. And that Tom did, as well."
Robert nodded slowly. He should have known Tom would have a say in this as well, it was in his character to try and help wherever he could. It had taken him long enough to realise it, but his son-in-law was a very decent man with good morals, even though his political compass was sometimes a bit impaired. But Tom always acted in the family's best interest without fail.
"Did he tell you about her?" He asked carefully, looking at Mary's downward-facing side profile.
Suddenly, her head swung around and she looked at him wide-eyed and perplexed. "You knew?"
Robert's jaw clenched and he nodded slowly and curtly. His hand finally let go of Cora's and he sat up straighter in his rather uncomfortable chair. For a second he contemplated if he should tell her what he knew or not, but lying would not help anyone in the long run. His lips pursed for a second as he looked at his eldest daughter in the low lighting of the quaint room — his eldest daughter, who looked so much like his darling wife; it astounded him time and time again. His eldest daughter, who was so much like her mother. Beautiful. Strong-willed. Disciplined. Intelligent.
"I did not know for sure. After our family Christmas dinner, I went to his room and spoke to him; I did not think he would tell you. Initially, I only wanted to have a serious talk with him, to maybe sway him in your favour. I had guessed that there must have been something or rather someone that had kept him from coming home all year. When I was about to leave, I decided to ask him flat-out, and he admitted to what I had guessed."
"But why didn't you tell me then, Papa?"
"Because on that night, I gave him a choice. Either he mans up, talks openly and honestly with you, and agrees to the divorce on your terms -"
"Or?"
"Or else we would petition for the divorce either way and make it as public an affair as possible, ruining not only his but also his family's name," Robert stated sternly. His features softened, though, when he looked over at her. His daughter, who was usually standing tall and proud in everything she did, was sitting in the chair all slumped, her shoulders hanging defeatedly. "Mary, it wasn't my place to tell you of his wrongdoings, not yet. I would have told you upon our return had he not."
Mary seemed to finally be released from her paralysis-like trance when she listened to her father. Slightly ashamed, she looked at the floor beneath her feet when she asked: "And you truly are alright with this? Me getting a divorce and subjecting all of us to a scandal of this extent?"
"I may be an old traditionalist stuck in my father's ways when it comes to business, but you are my child, my pride and joy, my eldest daughter. Even if you weren't already running the estate for me — better than I likely ever did — I would be beyond proud of you. I am proud of the woman you've become." Robert's hand reached for hers, his palm covering it on top of the bedding. His fingers slowly and gently closed around Mary's free hand, the one that was not clinging to her mother as if she were a young girl scared of getting lost in a crowd. "Mary. As your father, I only ever want what's best for you. You have always known better than anyone else whatever it was that you needed, sometimes not to your own advantage, but I trust your judgment. I am living with so many regrets about things I did and didn't do, about things I said. I regret how I cut Sybil off when she wanted to move to Dublin with Tom, and how I treated him in the beginning. I deeply regret that I did not even allow Cora to travel with you for Sybil's wedding when I was too hurt to go myself. Keeping her from her youngest daughter's wedding because of my own bruised ego is something I will always be ashamed of. And I regret everything about that horrible night that took your sister from us much too soon." He paused, looking at Cora. "I have so many regrets about how I handled things with Sybil, not to mention how I interfered with your and Edith's lives in the past. Of course, divorce is not ideal, but it is better than the alternative."
In a small voice, fighting the lump in her throat, she asked: "Which is?"
"Which is a sad life, an angry and resentful one. Take Shrimpie as an example. I didn't want to see and acknowledge his suffering in the beginning until I saw first-hand just how miserable he was when we were at Duneagle before they left for India. But he has been doing so well since the divorce, and even Susan seems better off. She's certainly less bitter and snide in her remarks. The world has changed, it is kinder to people who get a divorce and you will still have a standing in society. You won't be notorious and you will not subject us to scandal. I want you to be free of him, I want you to live life with George and Caroline the way you want to. I just want you to be happy, that is all that I could wish for as your father."
Mary suddenly stood from her chair on Cora's right and quickly walked around the bed to reach her father, who had — somewhat expecting her to react this way — stood up as well. The almost middle-aged woman threw her arms around her father's neck just like she had always done, ever since she was a small girl, and she buried her face in his shoulder.
Robert could only guess what she said, her voice being muffled by the thick material of his suit, but it would not be out of character for her to sob "Oh, Papa!" into his shoulder. And so he assumed that's what she said.
Carefully, his arms wrapped around her and he pressed her to him. Robert's eyes closed momentarily, he thought back to all the things he just told his daughter he regretted. And he regretted all of them bitterly. What he wouldn't give to be able to hold Sybil one last time the way he was holding on to Mary now. Back when he had finally come to terms with the role he played in the last months of his daughter's life and after he had finally reconciled with Cora after their months of hardship, he had made a promise to himself — to never let anything come between him and his family ever again, least of all his own mind, and he intended to keep that promise.
"I simply cannot be responsible for you living your life in misery when there is a way out. This is your chance at being happy again and I never wish to stand in the way of that," he whispered slowly and quietly into her ear. And he meant every word of what he said, Mary heard that in his solemn tone.
"Golly, that was unexpected," laughed Mary nervously when she slowly let go of her father and patted at her face with a handkerchief he handed her, presumably to dry the odd stray tear.
"We will have Murray handle everything," Robert said, chuckling at her surprised expression at this unusual moment between the two of them.
"Thank you, Papa. Now, let's get you to bed finally."
"You take the bed, I'm perfectly content with my trusty chair here," Robert retorted as if he was talking about an old friend while he sat back down at his wife's bedside, patting the armrest a few times. "We go way back. All the way to the beginning of this year, actually."
Mary knew she couldn't win this argument under the current conditions, but she had an idea of how to tweak them in her favour. She squeezed past where her father was sitting and began to push the wooden bedside table next to her mother's bed to the wall and make space, all the while Robert could only watch her go about this peculiar task with quizzically raised eyebrows.
"Could you stand up and take the chair with you? I need the space here," Mary then said once the nightstand was out of the way.
Wordlessly and quite confusedly, Robert did as he was told and watched his daughter wheel the metal bed around the room, manoeuvring it until it stood parallel to Cora's.
"Now, will you please go to bed, Papa? You're still by her side, you can still hold her hand. There's no reason for you not to take the bed now," Mary said triumphantly.