The neatly written words on the papers before him blurred as he took another drink. Putting the glass down a little too harshly, the sound of glass thudding against wood echoed in the empty bar of the Grantham Arms. Robert rubbed his eyes vigorously, trying to read the letters before him again. He had miscalculated the worth of the Della Francesca. Going against Mary and Tom's advice, he had commissioned the builders for the new housing development before the auction had closed on the painting. Certain that the piece of art would bring in an incredible sum, Robert had signed contracts with the more expensive firm. Ground had broken on the project weeks ago.

The letter from Sotheby's was on the bar by his glass, condensation from his drink making the ink bleed into the paper's fibers. The final auction price was far lower than Robert had banked on and he would now have to dip into the coffers, depleting Matthew's inheritance more than the estate could afford. At the rate they were spending, Robert would go down as the earl that lost two fortunes in his lifetime.

Robert brought the glass of Scotch to his lips but found he was unable to take a sip, the anxiety and disgust he felt warring within, closing his throat off. He put the glass back down and shook his head, alarmed to feel the embarrassing sting of tears in his eyes. He chuckled bitterly to himself, thinking how understanding Cora had been only a few years ago when he had told her of his failed investment. He contrasted her reaction then to the one he would face from Mary now. Unfortunately, she had not inherited her mother's empathetic predisposition.

Gathering the proof of his failures, Robert stuffed the various papers he had been agonizing over into his case and paid the barkeep. Stumbling off of his chair, Robert left the Grantham Arms and took the path that would lead him back to Downton. The air smelled of snow and burnt his lungs as he drank in large breaths, hoping to clear the fog of drink. His mind continued its flagellation as he ambled slowly home. He was a failure. All his life stretched before him as one string of missteps and lost chances.

Robert's transgressions didn't stop at bad investments. Mary and Tom would do much better without him. He was only holding them back. He hadn't been able to see Edith's secret until it was right in front of his face, and dear Sybil had paid the price of his stubborn, narrow view of the world. Robert found himself at the folly of Milford Lake on the edge of the estate. He thought of Cora. This had always been her favorite place on the estate. She had told him the moss covered brick and reedy lake waters reminded her of Central Park and that she could almost pretend she was in New York, back when part of her still longed for the place. Robert sat hard on the cold ground, the setting sun illuminating the bare trees and casting golden hues on the water, and gave into the tears he had been holding back.

The empty, brick building behind him echoed his sorrow into the quiet dusk as he imagined his wife in her sitting room, writing correspondences before dinner or working on embroidery, ignorant to his latest mistake. Thinking of Cora caused him the greatest guilt. They would all be better off without him, her most of all. Robert contemplated the lake, the icy water's gentle ripples beckoning him toward it. He got up onto his feet, walking to the edge, the toes of his shoes kissing the lapping lake. He pictured himself walking in and laying back, floating and staring at the starry, December sky, shivering and waiting for hypothermia to set in. He would cease to float and gently sink to the bottom and that would be it.

Robert closed his eyes and stepped forward, the waters of the lake pushing their way over Robert's shoe and soaking his sock, his toes immediately going numb. Shivering, Robert inhaled deeply and took another step, submerging his other foot. He hissed with the immediate pain, until that foot too could no longer be felt. Shaking his head, Robert banned the images of his family from his mind, silencing the voice inside and hardening his resolve.

Before he could go any further, a scream cut through his inner turmoil and his eyes flew open, scanning the now dark landscape for the distressed person. A half kilometer away, the water was breaking with the frantic splashing of someone in trouble. Robert ran out of the water and along the bank of the lake, reaching the drowning victim quickly. Finding a long, fallen branch, Robert grabbed it and hefted it into the lake.

"Here! Here! Take this!" The flailing arms quickly gained purpose as the man grasped the offered branch and clung tightly. Robert threw all his strength into pulling the sodden body out of the water. Once the man reached shore, he lay on the ground sputtering and trying to catch his breath.

"Are you hurt?" Robert inquired, searching the man for an injury and his identity.

The stranger sat up and smiled, suddenly free of any sign of trauma. "Not in the slightest, Lord Grantham."

Taking a step back, Robert's brow furrowed in confusion. "Who are you?"

The stranger jumped up, spry for an old man who almost drowned and slapped his hands together. "I'm Hamish, your Lordship, your very own guardian angel."

Robert let out a sigh and rolled his eyes before turning away, unable to find the patience for the obviously drunk man before him. "Yes, well, at least you didn't say Santa Claus."

"Wait, wait!" Hamish called from behind him as Robert walked quickly away. "Please stop." Robert quickened his pace, unsure where his destination was, but trying to put distance between himself and the man that pursued him.

"Do you really think it would have been better for all of them if you'd drowned yourself? Would her Ladyship have an easier time of it having to be told that your bloated carcass was found in the lake?"

Robert whipped around. "You shut your mouth and leave me be! I helped you now leave me alone."

Hamish put a tight grip on Robert's arm. "No, I helped you. I was sent here to stop you from killing yourself."

Robert shook his head and sunk down to the ground. "Why?"

"Because, Lord Grantham, it's the wrong path and none of them deserve that." Hamish said, sitting beside him.

"You're right," Robert agreed softly. "I wish I'd never been born."

"Do you now?" Hamish asked, cocking his head to the side and tapping his lip with his finger. "I think we can arrange that!"

Robert's eyelids suddenly grew heavy. He struggled to keep them open. Words were trying to form on his lips but his thoughts grew foggy and jumbled. An afternoon of drinking too much Scotch was catching up to him. No longer able to support his own weight, Robert slumped down until he was lying on the cold ground, snoring into the lonely night.