AN: Episode 5(!) aired here Sunday night, and I know there's quite a few Cobert fics out there filling in the gaps. I haven't read them all yet (so I apologize if I've taken somebody's idea-no plagiarism intended), but I don't think anyone's done one of Cora alone at home the next day. And as composed and gracious as she was in the midst of the crisis, I think that once it's passed and she's alone, after watching Robert spew blood all over the dining room and spending the night sitting at the hospital covered in it, Cora would be a wreck. And I know how we all love angst. ;-) (I also thought it would be nice to have a chance to work with Baxter, who I think is one of the kindest characters on the show and who's definitely my downstairs favorite.)

It had seemed that three or four nights' worth of hours had passed by the time the first light of dawn began to creep in the window, but the clock on the wall had confirmed that it was 4:30. Only 4:30. Only five hours since the surgery had ended, five hours since Cora had been allowed into Robert's room, five hours since she had taken his hand in hers. She could tell, by that hand alone, how deeply he slept—his fingers were limp, dead weights that refused to curl around her own and that did not stir in response to the gentle massage of her thumb.

Robert had not moved an inch since she had arrived, and she supposed it did not surprise her—of course he would sleep hard after the anesthesia. Nor did she wish him to do anything but rest, not after the trauma his body had been through tonight. Last night, she corrected herself. It was morning now—very firmly morning, the clock hands moving decidedly towards seven.

But oh, how she wanted to speak to him! How she wanted to see him open his eyes, how she wanted to tell him…to tell him…

"Mama?" Cora turned sharply at the sound of Mary's voice. "How is he? Has there been any change?"

"No—he's only been sleeping. What are you doing here?" She'd assumed everyone but the servants was still in bed.

"I'm here to sit with Papa, so you can go home, of course."

"This early?"

Mary raised her eyebrows. "Isn't it more 'very, very late at night' than 'early in the morning,' from your point of view? You've been up for, what—twenty-three hours? Twenty-two?"

Cora shook her head. "I'm all right. Quite all right." And she was—there was no need to go just yet.

"No, you're not. You're dead tired. Go home, Mama."

"No!" Cora was almost stunned at the vehemence of her own outcry, her fingers tightening sharply around Robert's, but of course he did not wake at that or at her increased volume. She could not see Mary's reaction—her vision was suddenly a blur of unshed tears. But she wouldn't leave, not now. She couldn't leave with Robert still sleeping.

There was silence as Cora turned away, embarrassed, and closed her eyes, desperately forcing her tears back inside. And then she heard Mary speak again, her voice softer, kinder. A voice she rarely used that did not sound quite like her.

"Mama, there is nothing you can do for him now. You said yourself there's been no change, and Dr. Clarkson said last night that he likely wouldn't wake until late this afternoon. He has many more hours to sleep soundly, and you should use that time to rest yourself."

"But he…" Cora's throat was slowly closing, and she swallowed, trying to force it to let the words out. "He needs…"

"He doesn't need you right now, Mama," Mary said gently.

But I need him! Cora wanted to shout. She needed him near her, needed to feel the warmth of his hand, needed to listen to his slow, steady breathing. Needed to know she had not left his side. Needed to tell him…

"But he will need you later," Mary went on. "He's going to wake up later today, and then he's only going to want you. I don't think Edith or I will quite do when he first wakes up." She gave her mother a small smile, and Cora returned it shakily. "And you'll want to sit with him and not be collapsing from your own fatigue. So you must sleep now so that you are well-rested then."

Slowly, Cora nodded, her heart clenching as she slipped her hand from Robert's.

"Come," Mary said, grasping Cora's elbow and helping her rise stiffly from the chair she had occupied all night. "Stark is waiting outside with the car."

"I think—I think I'll walk," Cora said absently. It somehow felt almost wrong to indulge in the luxury of a chauffeured vehicle, to ride in comfort while Robert lay in a hospital bed. "I–I would rather…"

"You will ride with Stark," Mary said, her voice kind but holding a firmness that would take no argument. "You have been up all night, and you are still in evening clothes, and you will ride with Stark."

When Cora arrived home, it was clear that most of the household was, in fact, still sleeping, and the silence as she climbed the stairs rang in her ears. She and Robert would have still been sleeping, too, she thought suddenly—sleeping together, curled around each other, safely tucked into her bed. She swallowed down another wave of tears at the thought of how peaceful Robert always looked when she woke before him, in comparison with his pale, pained expression of recent hours.

There was nowhere she wanted to be less than her bedroom, but she pushed the door open anyway and stepped inside, moving to the bell pull to ring for Baxter. Was her maid up yet? Surely she was up. Weren't most of the servants up by half past seven? Someone would be up, and someone would come, she told herself as she sank down into the chair at her dressing table.

"Milady?" she heard a familiar voice call out a few minutes later, and she turned to see Baxter in the doorway. "How is his lordship?" the maid asked as she pulled the door closed.

"Asleep. Much as he was when you…" She trailed off, remembering: Baxter had come to the hospital, early in the ordeal, with an overnight case holding one of Cora's most comfortable afternoon dresses, her slippers so that she might remove her heels, a small bottle of the lotion she put on her hands at night…and she had meant to change, but then the doctor had come in and she had been distracted and too numb to think of it later, and now here she stood, still in her evening gown. Still wearing her tiara, for heaven's sake.

Somehow, the thought that she was appearing to brush off her sweet maid's kindness was deeply upsetting—far more upsetting, she knew in some distant, rational part of herself, than it should be—and the tears that had been threatening all night began to spill over.

"Oh Baxter, I'm so sorry—I…please don't think that I…oh, I am sorry…" she managed to say.

"Whatever for, my lady?" Baxter asked, her face a mix of alarm and confusion.

"The–the bag you brought. I–I meant to change, but somehow I didn't, and…and I don't want you to think I wasn't grateful, because I–I was ever so grateful, but…"

She saw through her tears that relief was spreading across Baxter's face that nothing more was wrong, and it struck Cora how very silly she must seem. "Never mind about that, milady," Baxter said, coming to stand behind her and beginning to take her hair down.

"I'm sorry." Cora wiped her eyes with the backs of her hands, feeling like a little girl as she did so. What had she done with her clutch? Had she left it in the car? She'd had a handkerchief in there, but now Baxter was withdrawing one from her own pocket and silently passing it to her. "Thank you," Cora said, drying her eyes with it and blinking firmly to stop the tears. "I'm just—I'm very tired."

"Of course you are, milady. That's why we must get you to bed."

Baxter freed the tiara from her hair and Cora sighed in relief—she ought to have taken it out herself hours ago—and let her eyes close as Baxter gently removed pins.

"My lady," Baxter said softly, "would you like me to draw you a hot bath before you lie down?"

The same guilt she'd felt at relaxing into the car's plush interior washed over her again as she imagined herself sinking into a tub of warm water. There is nothing you can do for him now, she reminded herself, hearing Mary's words again. She also knew she was still covered in flecks of dried blood, and, while she could not bring herself to feel any disgust at it, she knew it would only make more work for her maid if she climbed into bed like this. And, she had to admit, a long, hot soak sounded like heaven after a night spent on a hard wooden chair.

"Yes, please. Thank you, Baxter."

Baxter silently continued removing pins before beginning to brush out Cora's loosened hair. Then suddenly, she froze.

"Baxter?"

"Perhaps I might wash your hair as well?" the maid asked hesitantly.

Cora blushed, realizing there must be blood there, too. "Yes, of course."

Baxter undressed her with the same delicacy she used when Cora was ill, as though she were made of tissue-thin glass and might shatter at the wrong touch. And this morning, Cora truly thought she might. At the very least, surely her chest would split in two.

She was soon stretched out in the bathtub, breathing in the scent of the lavender Baxter had added to the water, trying not to replay the images of Robert collapsing on the floor, blood pouring from his lips. Trying to be glad to wash the horrid night away, rather than grieving that she no longer had part of him on her.

Baxter dipped the ceramic bowl used for hair washing into the water before pouring it over Cora's head repeatedly, ensuring that her locks were soaked through. Then she took a small blob of shampoo in her hands and began to rub it into Cora's hair, her fingers soft and gentle as she massaged her scalp, giving special attention to the places where the tiara had dug into her skin all night.

It was one tender gesture too many, and Cora felt tears streaming out of her closed eyes and down her cheeks.

"I'm sorry," she said thickly, but she made no attempt to stem them this time, the energy she needed to hold them back slowly ebbing out of her. With the removal of her gown and her jewels and her hairpins, every physical vestige of the countess had been stripped away, and she was rapidly losing the control that came with it all.

"You don't have to apologize, my lady."

"No, you're embarrassed," she said, feeling the ridiculousness of the statement as soon as she said it. Of course Baxter was not embarrassed. A lady's maid had charge of the most intimate aspects of her mistress's life—this was far from the first time Cora had been naked in Baxter's presence. Of course emotions would not embarrass a lady's maid. Rather it was she, the lady, who was embarrassed.

"I am no such thing," Baxter said firmly. "Cry if you need to, your ladyship. There's no one watching but me, and I know how it helps."

And this, Cora realized slowly, her embarrassment fading, was the only chance she would get for it: she did not want to weep in front of Robert, not when he had his recovery to focus on, and certainly not in front of the girls, when they needed her to be strong.

"I just—I wish I had been able to talk to him," she said, her tears falling faster. "Because I didn't–I didn't tell him last night…" A sob tore from her throat at the memory: Robert had declared his love for her, in case it was the end, and she had been too selfishly terrified to acknowledge it might be. She'd told him it wasn't, and stubbornly refused to deliver any last words, as though she could hold onto his life if she admitted no possibility that it could end.

And thus he'd left the house on a stretcher, covered in his own blood, with no assurance of her love.

"Didn't tell him what, milady?" Baxter asked quietly, beginning to rinse Cora's hair.

"I didn't tell him I loved him," she whispered, feeling her heart break for the hundredth time.

"Oh, milady," Baxter murmured, her voice soft and soothing, "his lordship knows that. I'm certain he knows how much you love him."

Yes, she knew he knew, and the reminder only made her sob harder. Because this was not a time for knowing. It was a time for telling.