She needn't have worried about having the baby before Robert could get the doctor: he had insisted on hiring an English doctor to travel with them—something that had seemed unnecessary at the time, when they both spoke passable French, but for which she'd become immeasurably grateful in the last month—and thus the doctor was staying just down the hall. And she would labor for hours and hours and hours: she was told it was normal with a first baby, and the doctor was not blinking twice at the time it was taking, but she began to think it would never end.

And then, at last, as the early light of the next morning began to creep through the window, the doctor asked her to "give us one more push, Lady Downton," and with a final burst of energy, she gave birth and heard the quiet cry of a baby.

"Oh," she said, sinking back against the pillows, "it's really here." And then she began to laugh, relieved and marveling at what she'd just done. "What is it?" she asked as Griffin, who had stayed at her side all night, mopped her brow. "What did I have?" The baby was crying heartily now as the doctor wiped it off.

He was silent for a moment, and Cora held her breath. "It's a girl, your ladyship," he said at last. "A very healthy little girl."

She realized at once why he had hesitated: he was not the family doctor from Downton; he did not know their situation, and he had likely seen many aristocrats disappointed at the lack of an heir. But she could not have been happier: she had longed for a daughter for her own reasons, thinking that would suit her best, but she was also so, so relieved at not having to present her husband with an heir that she would always know was not fully his own.

"Oh, how wonderful!" she exclaimed, laughing again. "How very wonderful!" She held her arms out as the doctor finished wrapping the baby, and he placed the warm weight in her arms.

The baby settled immediately as her mother pulled her to her chest, and Cora gazed down at her, drinking in every detail of her face. "She's got my eyes," she said to no one in particular. "She's got my eyes." There was also a shock of dark hair like her own. She was instantly thankful that this baby would likely not look like Andrew Marks: she did not hate him—in fact, some days she could not even quite remember his face—but she did not want a constant reminder of the difficulty she'd faced in bringing this baby into the world.

But she would have loved it anyway, she knew. A small hand snaked out of the blanket, and when she brushed her finger against it, the little fingers wrapped around her larger one as the baby continued to stare up at her.

"Hello, my darling," she whispered. "I'm your mama." And then the tears began to pour from her eyes: large teardrops, and with surprising speed.

"Ah, that's quite normal, my lady," she heard Griffin say as the maid began to wash her. "Ladies often cry for no reason in the days after a birth."

Yet Cora knew she wasn't crying for no reason. She was crying because she was so, so glad she'd had this baby and not "taken care of it" as Andrew had told her to do, because she could not imagine having to give this child away as her maid had suggested, because it was surprisingly wonderful to finally hold a baby that had been the object of so much thought and so much agonizing for so long, and because she knew she'd be raising this baby—this daughter who she already loved more than she could have imagined—with a very, very good man.

"We have a daughter, Robert," she said when he entered the room. He had been up all night as well, she realized immediately, and he had not bothered to change out of the pajamas he'd been wearing last night. "Come and hold her."

He gingerly climbed into the bed, sitting down next to her, and she passed him the baby. "A beauty like her mother," he said hoarsely. He kissed Cora warmly. "Thank you, my darling."

She gave him a confused look. "What?" She had been thinking since the child had been placed in her arms of how thankful she was to him, that he had made it possible for her to have her daughter and raise her herself without either of them living as an outcast, and then loved her and the baby on top of it all.

"Thank you," he repeated. "Thank you for giving me your child."

She did not trust herself to speak, so she was thankful that a moment passed before he said, "What do you want to name her?"

She shook her head. "No, tell me what you want to call her."

"Darling, you've carried her in your body for nine months, and I know it hasn't always been easy. I think you've got the right to name her what you like."

"No," she said firmly. She wanted Robert to choose the name, as a mark that this child was truly his, and in honor of what he'd done for them both. "No, you choose, please."

He seemed to understand and considered for a moment. "Mary," he said at last. "Mary Josephine. I've always liked those names. Mary Josephine Crawley."

She gave him a teary smile, and he dried her eyes with his thumb. She loved the names, but what she loved best was the last one.

She was aching to hold her baby again, and he could tell, for he passed Mary back with a smile. "Darling," he said, taking her face in his hands and kissing her forehead. "You gave me quite a scare last night."

"What do you mean? Nothing was wrong." Nothing she'd been aware of, anyway. The doctor had told her all night that everything was progressing just as it should.

"Yes, the doctor kept coming down and telling me that, but…you were screaming, and…"

She smiled indulgently. "Of course I was screaming, Robert. You would scream too if you were having a baby. It's very painful!"

"Yes, darling, I know," he said, stroking her cheek. "But it frightened me…because I kept thinking, what if I lost you?"

"Oh, Robert…"

"And then I thought, you fool, you've never even told her you love her. And of course it's not something we English say very often or very easily, but I realized I'd never said it at all. And I do love you, Cora, very much indeed."

She stared at him for a moment, slowly realizing that she had never heard him use those words. She remembered that it had struck her as odd in the beginning, when he so clearly did love her, but it had slowly faded from her consciousness.

"You've told me you loved me, Robert," she said.

"I…what?"

"Many times. You told me you loved me when you proposed that night in your library."

"I don't recall…"

"Oh, you didn't use those words," she said softly. "I think the phrase you used instead was, 'let me take care of you, and of this child,' but I heard what you meant. And then you said it again when you came to see me the next day and told me about this house here and how we could pretend the baby was born later than she was, and then again when you took on your parents and prepared to sacrifice having an heir of your own blood and made the arrangements for us to marry and come here. And you've told me every day since." She reached up to pass her hand through his hair. "You sweet man, did you honestly think I didn't know you loved me?"

No words were necessary as he leaned in for a long, warm kiss, the baby between them.

Before they pulled away, there was the sound of loud voices downstairs, and Cora at last leaned back.

"Who is that?" she asked, but Robert's face suddenly turned stark white.

"Oh God," he whispered. "I forgot about your mother."

"It is Christmas Eve morning, isn't it?" she breathed.

And then the voices got closer, and the words were clear: "I don't know what's gotten into my son-in-law! He knew very well what time my train was coming, and I sat and I sat and I sat and saw no Englishman! So I hired a carriage myself. Undependable aristocrats…I assume Cora's upstairs? She ought to be resting, at this stage."

The house's butler, who had been sputtering all along, said, "If you'll just wait, ma'am, I think you'll—"

"My good man, I do not need an escort to visit my own child!"

Heavy footsteps stomped up the stairs as Cora fought back her laughter, not sure the tired muscles in her abdomen would be able to stand it.

"I think," said Robert, who was now chuckling himself, "that you may have been right about our last peaceful evening."