As soon as she had gone, as soon as she had walked out of the door of his office, he had known it was the wrong thing. So terribly wrong. In fact he had known all along, but it was only now that it was too late that it clicked into place in his mind. She shouldn't have gone. She should have stayed there with him.

He should have realised why increasingly of late he felt a deep ache within his chest if he watched her for too long as she went about her business at the hospital. Why when they accidentally touched he felt an almighty compulsion to keep ahold of her hand and not let go. And now he had let her go to France without so much as batting an eyelid.

He stood paralysed for he didn't know how long; mesmerised by his own blindness, his stupidity. How could he have let Isobel Crawley walk out that door when he did not know when the next time he saw her would be? Would he ever see her again? No, that thought was too horrible to contemplate, and irrational as well. He had to see her again. He needed to see her again. And he would, so help him God, as soon as possible.

Turning to look at the clock, he was horrified to discover that he had been standing rooted to the spot where she had left him for half an hour. Her train would have gone. Cursing himself, he took up his chair as briskly as he could, reaching for the telephone in the same moment. One telephone call to his unit command should do it. Emergency leave on compassionate grounds, whatever it took to get himself thirty six or maybe even forty eight hours leave he would tell them. Tomorrow she would be on that boat and, hell, he would shoot his own foot off if it meant that he could see Isobel once more before she went to France.

…...

He clutched the slip of paper in his gloved hands. Mrs Bird had required far less persuading than he had anticipated to surrender it, almost as if she had been told to give it up if asked. He kept glancing at the address, though he had surely read it a thousand times by now. It was cold and he did not know Bloomsbury very well, but he would not give up. He couldn't; every time his footsteps slowed, the thought of Isobel's face drove him on. In his more panicked moments, he thought that he could not remember what she looked like, but that was ridiculous; he had seen her this morning. He told himself that he knew her face by heart, and touched the breast pocket of his coat where a photograph of her lay, and kept walking. At other times, he thanked God for the friend of hers who had offered her their unoccupied townhouse to stay in the night before she went to Dover, because it meant that he had a chance of finding her.

…...

The door was answered by a young maid servant who led him into the drawing room, telling him rather haughtily that "missus was busy" and probably wouldn't see anyone anyway.

"She'll see me," he assured her, sounding much more confident than he felt, "My name is Richard Clarkson. Tell her I'm here, and I'll wait."

The girl looked him up and down- though she was shorter than him she still managed to survey him through her nose- and flounced back out into the passage. He waited alone, wondering what on earth he was going to say to her. No one convincing proposition had formed itself in his head for the entire journey down from York.

Sitting alone in the well-appointed drawing room, everything suddenly seemed a lot more subdued than it had during the rigorous train journey and the rapidly racing heart beat of his journey through Bloomsbury from King's Cross. He wondered for a moment in this quaint and innocent surrounding that not quarter of an hour ago, his thoughts had been entirely possessed by one woman; unable to wrench themselves from the sight of her hair, or the nearness of her skin, the delicate curve of her figure. Then, he heard the rapid scuffle of footsteps in the corridor, and the sound of voices.

"Please, ma'am," came the maidservant's voice, ill-hushed and distressed, "Lady Emily wouldn't like it, not in her house, it's not proper."

"Oh, to hell with propriety, Alice!"

Her voice, that she didn't trouble to lower. He felt his throat constrict for a moment with pride and love for her, before the door opened rapidly.

She was there; her hair half up, as if she had been pinning it back and suddenly stopped, the loose strands falling over the shoulders of her purple dress. Her eyes were drawn wide and bright with disbelief, exhilaration, and something like joy.

And suddenly, not feeling restrained any more, he spoke.

"I don't want you to go."

There was a palpable silence for a moment before she spoke.

"Alice," her voice demanded instantly that she was not to be argued with, "Send word round to Mrs Russel's that I won't be there this evening. Say I'm ill, anything. Then consider yourself dismissed for the evening."

Alice continued to goggle at them both for a moment, apparently unable to believe her eyes or ears, until a sharp look from Isobel sent her hurriedly out of the door, giving them both a disapproving glance as she went.

Left alone at last with Isobel, Richard felt himself both relax and become more anxious. From her manner, he could not quite tell how she'd taken his confession- hastily blurted out in front of a servant. Nevertheless, standing there wearing the most beautifully alluring of enigmatic expressions, he had the desire to simply cross the room and kiss her red lips, before they faded away from him entirely.

At last she spoke, quietly, fairly, as if she barely trusted herself.

"I don't think you can really ask that of me, Richard," she told him softly, "One word, the suggestion of a word from you while I was still at Downton, and I've had stayed in a heartbeat. It's too late now. I've committed myself to going, and I have to no matter if... no matter what."

He could tell that she was forcing herself to look at him, so he did her the courtesy of looking straight back at her.

"I didn't tell you to stay," he pointed out, "I know you can't, Isobel. But I still don't want you to go. And, believe me, I wish I'd said so before."

Never breaking his gaze from hers, he saw a single tear form in the corner of one of her eyes.

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