#drunk robert

Silence followed her departure. Complete, deafening silence.

What had he done?

He stood there. Unmoving. A tall and dark figure in the small room — motionless as realisation began to sink in.

What had he done? What had he just said to her? And more importantly — why had he said it, all of it? What had he done?

Because it was all a lie, it was not at all what he wanted. He did not want her, and most certainly not with every fibre of his being. He did not want her like he had said. And he knew he would not cherish the words she had said to him in hushed tones.

Robert needed to hear those words, desperately. Especially in recent weeks. He had been feeling as if he was losing sight of who he was, losing his standing, his purpose and his family all at once.

He needed those words. But he did not need to hear them from her. They should only be spoken softly, the sound enveloping him as he got lost in the warm familiarity of the gentle American lilt in her voice. Cora was who he needed to hear these words from, not her. Not the maid. Cherishing the words said by her would only remind him of everything that happened before, of the kisses. It would remind him of that moment it happened, of that entire evening and everything that had transpired. It would only serve as a painful reminder of this gigantic lapse of judgment that had led to him taking her into the dressing room in the first place.

Now, merely seconds after she had left, he already wanted nothing more than to forget about it. About all of it. He wanted to forget what he had said and especially what he had done. He wanted to forget everything that had happened in the last few weeks and months. He wanted to forget these damned kisses. He wanted to forget about her.

He quickly glanced over at the uncomfortable single bed that stood in the middle of the small dressing room he rarely ever slept in. This was his room, but it was not really. It hadn't been for decades. His room was her room. She was his everything. Looking at the made-up bed reminded him why he had come to this room in the first place. His wife was sick, lying in her bed in the room next door. And he had been seconds away from betraying her.

He was disgusted. Disgusted by himself and what he had almost done — or already done. And he could not stand to be in this room, the room it had happened in, for even just another second.

Tying his black embellished dressing gown tighter around himself, Robert quickly fled the room and all but ran down the stairs and into the library. With any luck, not that he deserved it, someone had refilled the decanter of whiskey. Carson certainly would have been so attentive, but the trusty butler had become a victim of the same illness that had stretched its fingers out for his wife. Maybe Molesley had? No, that man was even worse off than Carson was last he saw him.

He threw open the heavy door to the library, not letting the large and quite heavy plank of wood keep him from his destination. The last remains of the dying fire from earlier in the night flickering in the hearth were bathing the otherwise dark room in the faintest of warm, orange hues. He did not even bother turning on the lights, the faint glow was enough for him to make out the table and the glass bottles he was targeting.

Much to his dismay, the decanter with his favourite whiskey on the small side table was almost empty when he picked it up. With a dissatisfied grunt, he downed the last of it before setting the glass down much more forcefully than he should have.