AN: My prompt was the picture you can see and my word was 'embrace.' I did a little research and found that the picture is from a German postcard commissioned in 1907. The hotel and department store I use in Berlin are real places but any descriptions are entirely mine! The title is 'Christmas' in German. This little story is three chapters long, I hope you enjoy! And Merry Christmas!

Berlin, Germany. Late November 1907.

The rustling of skirts so early in the morning was a surprise but also an inconvenience. It meant he kept turning abruptly, his head whipping over his shoulder, eyes searching for the familiar face. She was never there, which is what he wanted.

His thoughts drift back to that morning, leaving her lying, chest rising and falling so calmly, the single curl that lay over her lips blowing upwards at each breath. The covers curved tightly into the swell of her breasts. Her lashes had been so very dark against her snowy skin. The room had been humid, leaving a glisten on her forehead- only very slight but noticeable to him. Her tresses had flopped lazily to one side, the ribbon loose at the end and trailing a bright splash of red onto the white linen. She had looked so very beautiful as he'd leant over and kissed her cheek, stretching slowly from the bed so not to wake her.

Now here he was, the bustle of the Berlin high street a month before Christmas, escalating with increased vigour around him. German words were being yelled across the streets, the accent heavy and hard; gruff. Women had babies swaddled to their bosoms. It was odd he thought, how the classes seemed to be in the very heart of this city. The poor walked beside the rich in these peculiar side streets that were neither posh nor ruined. He could see how it worked though. For the poor the boutiques of the street he was headed for provided the perfect base for pickpockets and the hope of a few extra pennies. For the rich, as in countries everywhere, they ignored the grubby, ill people that lived in squalor just down the alley, focused only on the glories of their own Christmas shop.

Robert felt a deep regret at that. That the world was so inverted, the values of Christmas lost beneath the veil of fancy dinner, Christmas pudding, a few big balls and presents being torn open beneath an oversized tree only to be forgotten as the next was laid before them. He slips a few coins into the hands of the small children, he wouldn't need them once he returned to England in just less than a week.

The department store that is his destination looms into view. And looms was the only way to put it. It sits on the corner, as any good department store does. The facade is huge made entirely of red brick, the whole four stories standing impressively over the people below. The arches provide respite he supposes, in the summer from the stifling heat. But not today, today people flurried like snow towards the swinging doors, desperate for the warmth that was offered within. He could see figures already standing at windows, watching the people below them. One woman was dipping her head every so often as each new hat was placed upon her head, deciding if she liked it. Some came off quickly others she tilted her chin this way and that before she made a decision. Other woman bustled out of the doors holding nothing but a fur muff to warm her hands, a maid trailing behind, struggling with doors as she attempted to keep hold of the multitude of hat boxes and bags. Robert took a second to imagine Cora like that, but he couldn't, she was always considerate, if not far too considerate, of how life was for O'Brien.

He flips the fob of his watch open as he strides inside, how quickly could he find what he wanted, purchase it and be back to Cora? Half and hour, he hoped would do the trick. He slips it back into its resting place, hoping that by twenty-five to ten he could be back at the Adlon Hotel with Cora to admire.

He never usually did this kind of thing, sneaking around when Cora might find him. But he didn't have a choice, there was so little time left until Christmas, and by the time they returned home he wouldn't have time for shopping. The girls were all sorted, he and Cora had done that together. Now, it was time to purchase Cora some items.

They never gave very much, a little stocking, that was a tradition stretching back to their first Christmas, and then one gift to open before the family. Much of the stocking was already ready and waiting beneath the dressing room bed at Downton, other pieces he'd left entrusted with Rosamund.

The item he was in search of today had to be special, it had to symbolise a good many things without making him look as though he loved Cora for very little but her physical appearance. What he wanted for her, was one of the new, modern nightgowns he had seen being wafted about by ladies obviously shopping for their trousseau a few days earlier. What had struck him about the youthful beauties tittering about them to their Mama's was that most of the girls had no particular chance of looking remotely enticing in them. Cora on the other hand would look splendid.

The women on the stairs don't seem obliged to let him pass as he scrambles for the third floor. They are all too busy, even at the early hour of five last nine to halt their conversations until they reach the level floor, instead they walk in pairs or threes, clutching at each other's elbows and giggling profusely.

The third floor was he thought the prettiest of the levels. The walls were wallpapered in a traditional pattern that was familiar to him (it was in nearly every house he'd been to in London), the ceilings a pristine white aside from the centre piece in each of the four sections the floor was split into. These sections contained intricate paintings depicting Ancient figures, mainly the gods and goddesses of the Roman world. He heads to the right, relieved to find the floor vacant of people. He daubs his brow slightly and steps into the cream hues of the nightwear department.

Three sides of the closed in section, all except the wall he stood before, were filled with layouts of nightgowns. Some were simple rails, each of the dresses covered in a thin veil to protect them from wear. Mannequins were set up either side of the mahogany panelling that framed the windows. The walls to his left and right, that separated this department from the two either side of it, each had two long mirrors directly opposite one another; perfectly angled so that a woman could see her full profile without fuss. A glass counter with additional accessories sat in the centre of the room, other tables were dotted around also, providing easy places for those shopping to compare different garments.

A lady immediately spots him looking lost in the doorway and steps his way. He lightly brushes her off with the remnants of his German before her eyes twinkle and she smiles, she asks in French if he is English. He almost laughs with amazement, French he could manage. He explains easily what he wants and he smiles asking politely if his wife is 'a pretty young thing?' The conversation continues much like that as they discuss Cora and the various nightgowns she lays gently before him. She explains it is paramount that she has 'an image of her client before she can select gowns.'

The first few don't hit on point but as Robert explains more to her, snippets of French he'd heard Mary and Edith practicing fall from his tongue, the gowns look more and more like Cora. He's almost decided on a cream one, with a ribboned back, tied together much like Cora's corset is with a pair of wavy short sleeves, that might just reach her elbow. He runs his fingers gently over the satin and flips the price tag over for his inspection when a box opens beside him, sleeves of tissue paper fluttering to the floor.

Lavender that reminds him of nothing but Cora wafts from the box, the packet of the dried flowers flopping to the table at the flick of the sales assistant's fingers.

"Voila!"

The blue fabric cascades to the floor as the lady holds it neatly at the top. It is a pale blue, a beautiful, morning sky shade. The neckline is low, everything Cora had ever worn had a collar, this certainly did not. It has delicate embroidery, adding some traditional cream to the modern colour, in a swirl of flowers and leaves. But more startling than that are the little straps that held the gown on the shoulders, they had a frilled edging, a soft piece of sheer fabric designed to gap the shoulders. The satin falls away somewhere at the knees, the sheer fabric of the shoulders falling over it and lower to the floor, from the waist. The lady, whose name he'd learnt was Margarethe lays the front down on the pile that had accumulated, so the back is visible. It's loose, much like the cream one, tied with ribbons but with handmade buttons studded down either length as embellishment. He nods his agreement as she beams beside him, her mumble of 'I knew it,' not escaping his notice.

The gown is reboxed and bagged in multitudes of tissue and ribbon before he pays the hefty price tag in cash. Not that he minded. It was worth it. Cora was worth it, far more in fact.

The stairs are less crowded on the descent, he thinks it might be the fact he's carrying the bag, he notices it less, too busy focusing on manoeuvring his purchase between the ruffles and frills that adorn every hemline. The ground floor he remembers, after spotting a clock that gave him another fifteen minutes before the time he wanted to be back wth Cora, sold a multitude of gifts for any and everyone. What he needed was a card, or gift label to attach to his chosen present.

He weaves his way through yet more people, stumbling through the children's department in the process and almost tripping over a young boy on the floor playing with a toy train- this was exactly why he forgoes shopping unless he has to, or unless Cora was going with him. There's a blonde girl in one corner bobbing about with various fur trims as her mother watches on, she couldn't have been more then six. He finally wanders calmly into the gift section, spotting instantly the stand of cards and pictures.

There was some very pretty ones, ladies on frozen over lakes skating. Children admiring huge Christmas trees with teddy bears and dolls tucked beneath their elbows. Others had decorative stacks of presents. It was odd therefore that the one he picks off the rack is of a depleted old man, dressed in a blue jacket, carrying an old sandy coloured sack, with a beard that's greying reaching to his chest. The elderly man was, he supposed, the German Father Christmas and he was trudging through the snow looking entirely fed up with his task.

The truth was, this was the one that made him chuckle, that brought to mind instantly the words he was going to scrawl on the back; words he hoped would make Cora laugh. He hoped she'd sit beside him in bed on Christmas morning laughing, she'd laugh so hard she'd fall back onto the mattress beside him, kissing his cheek, eyes shining with suppressed tears.

He hands over the coins required, fumbling at one point as he gets confused once more with the odd currency. Tucking the postcard into the side of the bag he checks his watch once more: twenty-five past, ten minutes until he wanted to be back wth Cora.

He dashes from the shop, weaving dangerously quickly between the prancing ladies. The chill of the late November air catches him as he thunders through the doorway, a security guard giving him a once over. He pulls his jacket more closely around him and crosses the street.

Walking back through the same crowded back streets as he had used on his way, catching sight of the odd well dressed gentlemen who'd obviously been enjoyed the acquaintance of some woman or another, he couldn't help but realise how absurd and unjust his mother had been on the day of his and Cora's departure. She'd heralded them, cocooned them each in the corner at separate moments, whispering behind her ruffled shoulders, telling them about their duty. Cora had blushed profusely and nodded along, Robert had turned his back and walked away. He wouldn't, not after all these years have his own mother treating Cora as a useless, unworthy piece of furniture. She'd proved herself so many times and yet his mother had refused to see it, purely because their was no son.

He almost trips on the curb of the pavement, diving to remove himself from the path of the oncoming taxi carriage. It had swerved up onto the pavement, travelling at a rate he really didn't think was necessary; it was as if it was carrying fugitives. A small women stands bundled in the doorway just to his right, her shawl not quite covering her bare shoulders, he drop a coin into her blackened, calloused hand, before taking the final right turn that lead him back onto the main street, and the Adlon Hotel.

The hotel itself had only opened on the twenty-fourth of October that year, he and Cora were the first guests to have stayed in the suite that they had occupied for the last four weeks. They had a week left before they were to depart home, which would take a few days at best. They hope to be back a couple of weeks before Christmas mainly to indulge in the Christmas treats with the girls; the decorating of the tree in the hall was still the best part of the festive season, despite their girls increased age. And the sneaking of presents upstairs and under beds was always a source of much amusement.

The stairs that flank the hotel are fanned; the longest ones at the bottom, the shortest directly below the door. Two porters stand by the door, double checking all visitors were recognised to them. The one on the right gives him a nod, and Robert dips his hat before taking it off. They'd spoken the other day and the young gentleman had been convinced that he and Cora were not in fact married but rather lovers. It wasn't the first time it had happened when he'd been abroad and it didn't surprise him, Cora was far too beautiful and looked so very much younger than him. Even when they'd married all his friends from Eton thought he was punching way above his weight. Where Cora was thin and delicate, hair perfectly arranged, he was a little too chubby and his hair often a wild mess. But it seemed she had taken to that.

The foyer of the hotel still hasn't seized to amaze him after four full weeks and he takes in the chandelier that shadows the centre length of the ceiling; blues and greens sparking over the walls. The plush carpets lining the stairs give easily beneath his heavy footing, his purchase swinging lazily on one side as he carries his hat in the other.

He manages to struggle the door to the suite open and he hears a distant shifting of material from the bedroom he and Cora had chosen (of the two in the suite) to occupy. He doesn't call out her name, she was an awful fidget in bed and there was a chance she was just turning in her sleep as they'd taken the break from Downton as an opportunity to have lazy mornings, although some were far lazier than others that was for sure.

He ambles towards the bedroom, poking his head gently around the door. She smiles back at him, bedding pulled to her chin, a sleepy expression twinkling softly in her eyes.

"You're back. At last." She reaches her upturned palm to him, her fingers stretching towards him before flicking the covers further off his side of the bed. "Come back to bed and keep me warm." He chuckles softly at her pout, slipping his tie from his collar and dropping his jacket to the floor. His shoes flop to the side of the dressing table and he removes his trousers. But all he notices, all he pays any attention to, is her face.

The way her cheeks warm ever so slightly as he crawls in bedside her, his bare body pressing against her own. He notices the shiver that flutters over her body as his fingers dance slowly down her spine through the fabric of her gown.

"What did you buy?" He chuckles into the top of her head, knowing she's trying to pry for his secrets.

"That would be telling." A soft gurgle comes from somewhere in her throat. He ignores it, burying his nose into her hair, letting the lavender scent, that had sent him hurtling back to her in the shop, wash properly over him. Burning a path up his nose; swimming into his eyes; tickling at his eyelashes; spreading beneath the skin on his fingers as he brushes them over the end of her curls. It wasn't just lavender though, there was something else under there, a hue of something he'd smelt nowhere else. In fact it was less of a fragrance and more of an essence, a constant that was always there whether the lavender was or not. It was a soft scent, very soft. It wasn't overwhelming, it was homely. It was that fragrance, more so than the flowers, which centred him and it centred him because it was Cora's scent.

Downton Abbey, Yorkshire, England. December 1907.

The saucer was becoming slippery; except it wasn't. She knew it was the pores on her fingers, releasing salts. The same was happening behind her high collar, beneath her corset on her back, the ties weren't tight and yet she felt boiling. The steam was rising from her cup and hitting her face, making her eyes water, her cheeks grow pink. But she couldn't lift her gaze to her eldest daughter opposite her. She should, but the stinging of her eyes was more bearable than her daughter realising something was up; realising that her father was making her mother unable to compose herself.

She closes her eyes briefly to recede the stinging that was going to send water droplets over the lashes if she wasn't careful. All it meant though was that she had one less unpleasant feeling to occupy her brain, which allowed Robert's gentle voice to waft into that space and pound as loudly behind her eyes as the water did.

"We saw lots of sights. We went to many of them two of three times enjoying the advantages of different routes hat still lead to the same enjoyment." She blushes hard, hoping against hope that Mary at her youthful age of sixteen didn't understand the innuendo that Robert seemed set on taunting her with. "Many a lazy morning resulted in a more refreshed sense of where we were going to visit that day and how we were going to get there."

All she could picture was his flushed face above her, the vibrations of her name against his neck as he found that place. The burning of his skin where it had pressed to her own. The throbbing between her thighs as he'd teased her before. The warmth of being curled against him the mornings, saving herself from the cold chills of November.

They had visited some sights that was for sure, and done a fair amount of shopping but enjoying each other had been the thing that had bound all that together. Every way they knew had been utilised, every route.

"Did you shop Mama? Were the shops more modern than the ones here?" She almost splutters on her tea, the anxiety over her daughter's innocence and the sudden introduction of herself into the conversation startling her. But she recovers soon enough, her mind placated knowing that Mary had taken Robert's comments at face value.

"We did shop dear, yes. But I wouldn't say the clothes were more modern." She doesn't let her mind dwell on the young girls wafted nightdresses for their trousseaus cross her mind. Nor the dresses they had been promoting that seemed to remove the need of a collared dress in the evenings. She lets her mind waft over the counter of powders and creams, even lip colours that would have no doubted piqued Mary's interest. "But there was one department store that was quite stunning. Each of the different levels had a different colour scheme." But Mary doesn't seem to find that interesting her toes tapping beneath her skirt. Violet would tell her to stop fidgeting but Cora remained too consumed in her own thoughts. She lifts her eyes slightly to her right as she moves the China to her lips.

The normally cool china is warm on her flesh and as Robert's own hand, stretched on his knee, fingers splayed, are found by her gaze she feels the warmth lift into her cheeks. Her eyes trace the shapes of his arms beneath his jacket, before resting on the rougher flesh of his neck. Tastes flash before her, the rich texture of Robert's skin, a sweet fruit that was never ending. The scolding liquid slides instantly down her throat, her collar clutching more viciously to her throat, hindering her breaths as she very almost chokes on the tea as he glances towards her, a smirk resting between his cheekbones. He'd noticed her watching then.

"So these sights you visited were they gardens, buildings, museums?" Mary's solemn smile seems to hide something more.

"Yes we visited-"

"Only Granny seemed to think you weren't seeing as many of the attractions and that you were just enjoying your suite at this brand new hotel." Cora feels her heart race more at that than Robert's secret teasing. Violet had made it quite clear before the trip, which she herself had pushed and pushed to be arranged, that the sole purpose was for the two of them to spend some quality time together, in the 'hope that something will finally come of it.' Cora had been on edge ever since yesterday anticipating her mother-in-law's appearance.

"What did she say?" Robert's teasing is forgotten, his tea cup clashes on his saucer as he strides to the table, readjusting his suit jacket.

Cora's nerves become all consuming as Mary explains. She can feel her pulse hammering at her wrist but despite that sensation, the increased blood flow, her fingers fall weak. The joints complaining at the weight of the China, her wrist hardening, stiffening into that set position with the saucer poised just above her lap.

She feels the tea already floating in her stomach turning harshly, reminding her all too clearly of when the girls had tumbled inside her. How she'd hoped and prayed for little boys, every turn with Sybil had felt different, felt unfamiliar to her. It had all suggested the heir they so needed and yet her hopes had been dashed, sending her into a state of mind she never wished to return to. She felt the twinge of her insides, the pulls that were simply telling her she needed some cake to go with her tea, but all she could think of was what it wasn't. It wasn't the struggling kick of a curled over infant, testing the boundaries of its surroundings. It wasn't the little Christmas gift that she had Robert could spend the next few months choosing names and clothes for. It was just her ageing body demanding her attention. She stands stiffly, the cup and saucer still fixed at that same odd height. Images begin to blur before her vision, her stomach thumbling and her pulse thundering.

"I'm just going upstairs I feel a little unwell." There was no point in lying to Robert, she could see through the strange fog that seemed to cloud more than just her vision, and was beginning to eat away at her mind, that his eyes were already trained firmly in her direction.

The harsher carpet of the hall presses at her toes, pushing them into the fronts of her shoes; pushing her faster. Her thoughts spike with each thump her toes makes against the leather. Each step brings forth an image: a baby curled up then disappearing; Robert kissing her swollen stomach; the cries of a baby. Some of the other images are harsh: screams and cries; Violet staring down her nose at her, lips drawn together shaking her head in disapproval. She sees Mary watching her over her cup, frowning at her baby in her lap: 'she's not a boy Mama, you've ruined us' she murmurs.

Her shoes find the softer velvet carpet of the stairs but she almost stumbles on the first step, her toe jamming straight against the back of the step. A hand catches her before she falls, but she can't make out Charles Carson's face, she only recognises his voice. Her mind swims, a heavy pressure drowning all sensations other than guilt and anger.

Sounds are the only things that slip through the void. And that's when she pauses, the hush of voices, young male voices pulling her in. Linking her drastic state of mind, a little boy, a young man, an heir, to the voices of the present, to the youthful lads leading in the tree.

She hears their hushed accents, so very different from her own and Robert's, as they position the tree and Carson ties the very top to the pillar in the gallery as the men announce they are happy with the position. They begin giving instructions to Mrs Hughes about the watering of the tree for the best results. Cora watches as two men jostle to the left of the tree, slapping each other on the back.

She lets her eyes trail over the great expanse the huddle is all bottle greens that had resulted from the red and oranges that could be seen nearer the trunk of the tree. The general autumnal hue the tree still seemed to emit; the very tip was still a mustard brown. The narrow needles that adorned every single branch in their thousands, beckoning, as their life began to draw to a close for the decorations that stood in dusted boxes upstairs; anything to make its last days more beautiful. Cora thought of where it had stood only yesterday, in the overpopulated woodland that shadowed the house, and now it had the privilege, a younger Mary would say, of being brought into that great house it had presided over to be content for the last weeks of its life, to live in the splendour away from the harsh temperatures of the Yorkshire winter. But an older, more well educated Mary realised that the tree was old anyway, and now, they, this family were forcing it towards death at their own extravagance. Cora felt like that, a little overlooked, her life unimportant except when it concerned the sole 'function' she had to perform, and had failed to. They thought of the tree's function as being their decoration at Christmas, but that wasn't what it was at all, it had a bigger part in life, in this environment other than just a decoration. But Cora did know, that despite the tree being made redundant in their home, it still held its head high and she supposed that's what she should do, keep going, for the sake of what she did have; for Robert and her daughters. What she didn't have she couldn't odds but what she did have she should be dwelling on, being thankful for, exactly as Christmas festivities suggested.

But as quickly as her determination had come, the encounter she had been dreading steps into the hall, the feathers in her hat standing more alert than Carson.

Cora watches the older woman's gaze take over the Christmas tree. She sees her eyes flick like a serpents to the young men dressed in dark colours; she spies the quirk of her lip, the questioning glance at the 'riff raff' which lined the great hall.

"It's on an angle that's worse than the leaning tower of Pisa itself." The room goes silent as she points her stick towards the sharp point that marks the trees climax. "It needs to be further to the left at the top Carson."

"Mama," she takes a gentle step back down as Violet's gaze falls on her. She feels her eyes give her a once over, hovering decidedly on her stomach. She arches her eyebrow almost as high as her mauve hat when her own hands fall instinctively to her stomach; to protect the emptiness that seemed was the only thing she was worthy of having there. But, her neck doesn't tilt, her back doesn't slouch at the non-verbal interrogation, she keeps her head high, her gaze locked with her Mama's. "Carson has done a fine job, he's made allowance for the weight of the star that will rest on the top."

"Very well." She doesn't look impressed, her face twists in that way it does when she's so convinced she is right. Her stick wafts onto the stairs. "Robert said you felt unwell." She leads the way upstairs and Cora reluctantly follows, she could feel already where this was going. Dear Mama certainly didn't want to discuss the holiday, she didn't want to discuss the architecture and artwork they'd visited. She didn't want an insight into the shops or the clothes she'd purchased, or even a list of the Christmas presents they'd purchased. All she wanted was an insight into the hotel, and specifically how much time the two of them had spent enjoying the delights of their suite, and each other.

"It's passing." They reach the gallery and Cora immediately turns to her right, wanting the comfort of her bedroom. Their bedroom. The familiarity of Robert's things strewn about her room might help her to relax, might stop her from yelling obscene remarks at his mother.

"I've had tea sent to your sitting room, I thought that would be more comfortable." Her mauve skirt brushes hard against the banister as she turns on her heels, her stick managing to make a deafening, echoing sound despite the plush carpet it was making contact with. Cora can feel the hard stare that her cornflower eyes are no doubt emitting but thankfully, as she trails behind the older woman she doesn't have to be under the scrutiny of quite yet.

Violet immediately lowers herself onto the apricot setter, leaving Cora with the less than comfortable chair that had been given to her by Robert when he'd invested in a new one for his desk. The result being the springs were entirely gone, having been sat in by all seven earls of Grantham at some point and the stuffing was lumpy. But, the upholstery was stunning and had fitted perfecting in this room and received a great deal less wear as Cora tired as often as possible to do her work outside, or sat on the settee in her sitting room, rather than at her desk. Besides Robert had placed her a desk in the small library just around the corner from his own, which afforded a lovely view of the grounds and his conversation.

She feels the churning within her again as the cornflower eyes that have filtered more to a grey, achieving the illusion of looking twice as menacing, rest firmly on her fingers crossed in her lap.

"So, Robert didn't really mention the hotel a moment ago, was it nice?"

"Mama, you're not one to beat about the bush. I know what you want to know and the answer is, as you should know, it's too soon to tell. A month hasn't passed yet."

"Cora don't be opaque it doesn't suit you. There are other signs as you know full well. Do you feel tired or-" She closes her eyes very slowly, swallowing the hurt, the anxiety in Violet's voice as she struggles to comprehend the lack of a grandson.

"I'm sorry Mama. You know full well if I could I would have done. I want a son just as much as you would like a grandson. I love Robert and it hurts, really pains me that I can't give him what he so wants." Her nails are untrimmed she notes dimly as she talks into her lap. The hollowness of her stomach seems to pound like her heart. The vibrations that twirl there are as constant and as solid as her heart pumping blood. The emptiness as reliable as the workings of her circulation.

Her companion makes no reply and Cora glances up after a time, letting her lip finally fall from between her teeth. She only finds her Mama's gaze trained straight out the window.

"There's still time. Robert took Patrick and I years it seemed, although perhaps not this long. But I'd only had one other, so it felt like a lifetime. The odd thing was, we so needed a son and yet I would have been equally as content if Robert had been a girl. I just wanted to be a mother again." Cora stares at her quizzically, head tilted to one side, looking at the poise of Violet's hand over the silver handle of her stick. Her nails so pink against the shining surface, the wrinkles on her knuckles clearly beginning to show the age of her companion. "But, the thing was Patrick and I were a traditional upper class couple. You and Robert are not and yet there is no baby." She stares back at her again, her lips sliding into a prim, straight line while Cora's cheeks warm. The irony was Cora had thought of this before, she honestly couldn't work it out either but she'd put it down to bad luck, after all Sybil had taken longer than expected to conceive. "Anyway, I'm pleased you had such a lovely time. I thought I might come over tomorrow for the decorating of the tree." And just like that all attention falls on Christmas. Presents for the girls, the baubles they would use this year and those they wouldn't. The three new ones Violet had purchased, one each for the three girls, as had been the tradition since they had been born. It's only when Violet quizzes her quite calmly on the presents she's purchased for Robert that she freezes up.

She can visualise the dressing gown before her but she can't get seem to see it without Robert wearing it. She stumbles as she tries to describe what it looks like without adding assumptions about what he will look like in it. She fumbles even when her Mama asks her for what colour it is, changing her mind from navy to just blue in a matter of seconds. Violet eyes her suspiciously making Cora's cheeks warm. It was ludicrous she knew, not being able to describe a simple item of clothing but she supposed it was what it symbolised that put her off.

She'd brought it in the KaDeWe in Berlin almost to remind herself what the state of her marriage was; that Robert would still love her despite her inability to produce that heir his mother had sent them away for.

And the reason she'd purchased that item and none other was that it was a symbol of him and Cora. She was the only person that saw him in it that wasn't his valet. She often peeled it off of him or watched from the bed as he divulged it and slung it over her chair. Sometimes he would wear nothing beneath it, he complains viciously of the all in one union suite that is men's underwear. Pyjamas he did usually wear so if was often with nervous blushes from them both that he appeared in her room without them.

But it wasn't just those moments that stood out. Robert wore a dressing gown without fail, whatever was or wasn't beneath it, to enter her room every night and to leave it every morning. It was a symbol of the hours they spent in her room, alone and together. It was a constant that reminded her that her marriage was sound and loving. And more importantly that the man she had entered into that promise with, loved her.