Carson taps the corner of the telegram with his index finger. He wishes the action could knock the words off of it but they remain in black against white. He is wasting time, he knows it, standing in front of the door, listening to the buffered sounds of silver hitting china. He pivots, faces the tapestry on the opposite wall, studies the fraying fibers. He wants to let them finish dinner before entering. A door opens down the hall, closes hollowly. It is Mrs. Hughes. She stops near him, looking puzzled. He doesn't know why he hands her the telegram, perhaps to disprove the reality of its contents or perhaps to share the burden. She reads quickly, hand goes to mouth, a sharp inhale, her eyes opening wide before probing his own.

"Does his Lordship know?"

The question echoes around him. He is depressed with the thought of how much bad news he has delivered over the years. Despite the practice, he is no good with timing, or softening blows. Mostly, he blurts out announcements of death or disease or war in one breath, like throwing a grenade and then helps pick up the scattered pieces. He tries to rehearse the words in his mind before remembering he will only need to tell the staff. With his Lordship, he can just place the offending paper in his hands and let it speak for itself. Shaking his head, he takes a deep breath before gripping the brass knobs in his hands.

"Can you imagine if she's…" Mrs Hughes doesn't finish and Carson's hands pause before he slowly opens the doors.

Carson enters the dining room as James walks around the table, presenting a tray of asparagus. Robert waves him off, not caring for the vegetable before him. In fact, the sight of them dampens his appetite slightly. Oddly, they make him think of Cora. She would eat the noxious green stalks everyday if allowed. When Cora was pregnant with Edith, he was sure the child would come out green, his wife ate so much of it. Robert looks across the table at her empty seat, feeling a pang of loneliness. He had encouraged her to travel the continent with her mother and brother for a few weeks before they went back to America, business at Downton preventing him from joining. He can't remember the last time it is he who is left behind while she is away and he finds the halls of his home are not the same without her presence within them.

Deep in his own thoughts, he barely hears Carson's "telegram, milord" before the paper is placed in his hands. He vaguely wonders at the late hour before reading the words, his mouth stopping mid chew, the food turning offensive in his mouth as the meaning settles in. Train derailment in Wales. Levinsons and Lady G unaccounted for. Rescue efforts proving difficult due to weather. Will contact with more info. Murray.

He excuses himself quickly, not looking back at the confused glances of his family. His telephone call to Murray yields little more information. The passenger train crashed into a freight carrier due to a switch problem. Most aboard are still unaccounted for and a good portion of the carriages derailed and fell over an embankment. First class took the brunt of the damage. It was to be the last leg of Cora's trip, to visit an ancient friend of her mother's in southern Wales, before coming home to him.

Robert stares out the window of the library, a soft, lazy snow falling in the moonlight. Absently, he swirls the glass in his hand, the amber liquid going round and round, creating a vortex before he lifts it to his lips and takes a long drink. The brandy burns his throat and hits his stomach like acid. Grimacing, he swallows against the bubble of discomfort, trying to purge the sickening thoughts that won't leave his mind.

Robert had relayed the information to the family, trying to infuse his voice with as much optimism and hope as he could but his throat was tight around his words, a fiery pain lodging between his shoulder blades. Mary had been stoic and Edith had peppered him with questions and he had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from losing his patience with her. Tom had been wide eyed and grim faced and his mother had been silent for once. After telling them the little he knew, there was nothing left to really say, all of them quietly caught up in their own thoughts and they all slowly retired after a time, leaving him to his brandy and the snow falling beyond the glass.

The brandy does nothing to calm his mind as he wonders if she is alright. If she is alone and afraid? If she is...? He can barely think the words, but they dance there like a devil on the edge of his consciousness, taunting him. Surely, after being with her for over thirty years, he would be able to feel it keenly, like the tingling of a phantom limb, if she were truly gone.

"Papa?" The voice is softer and more tentative than that which usually comes from Mary. He turns slightly in his chair, and she enters the room in her nightdress and robe. "It's very late. Won't you go to bed?"

Robert tries to smile at her and shakes his head, his eyes suddenly burning. The cold of his dressing room holds no appeal for him, and yet he cannot bring himself to go to Cora's room and smell her perfume on the pillow and feel the emptiness where she should be laying. Mary ventures closer, picks up the brandy decanter and fills his now empty glass. She pours another glass and sits near him and Robert raises his eyebrows slightly before she takes a dainty sip. He finds himself chuckling despite his previous dark thoughts when she shivers and frowns at the harsh liquor in her hand.

"Are we really just meant to wait with nothing to go on?" Her words are spoken quietly but Robert can hear the strain in them. It mirrors the voice in his head and he cannot answer her. Instead he takes her free hand in his and squeezes it. Robert studies Mary's hand, its delicate features so like Cora's. He holds it tightly, this flesh made from half of his wife and he hopes that wherever she is, she may feel him somehow.

"She'll be alright Papa. She will!" Mary says emphatically and Robert wonders who she is trying to convince more.