Light, it's complex yet amazingly simple. As a child Isobel loved to fill wine glasses with water and set them on the windowsill. The sunlight would pass through the water filled vessel and cast rainbows and shards of light onto the wall. When she was older her father had had shown her a prism. She listened to him enraptured as he told her white light was made up of all the colors of the rainbow-the spectrum.
"But white is plain!" Isobel nearly whined to her father.
"Well now you know better" he gently scolded.
He also told her of reflection and absorption. Later that week they did an experiment leaving a white and black handkerchief in the sunlight. The darker piece of cloth was much warmer having absorbed more heat. With this new knowledge Isobel had set to work. She had tried mixing all of her paint to make white but it didn't happen.
"Father? I thought you said white light was all the colors? When I mix these it makes a...brownish black."
Her father merely smiled, "Light is a lot different than paint."
It was this thought that was permeating all her thoughts. She felt out of place here, like a wayward splotch of paint just waiting to be wiped off of a canvass.
Why am I here?
her mind answered at once
Because cousin Violet asked.
Her eyes traveled across the room, Doctor Clarkson was here as well. She hid her smile by sipping on her coffee it was then that she saw that he had no cup. Spratt passed by him oblivious to his desire. Isobel felt cold when she saw Doctor Clarkson's head drop minutely at being ignored. Violet saw it too and corrected the mistake.
This glaring omission got Isobel's blood up. However, her indignation had to be placed on the back burner for Violet came near to talk to her.
After the luncheon Violet asked Isobel to stay and talk. Isobel wasn't stupid she knew that the old woman wanted something.
In a roundabout fashion Violet asked about Lord Merton and Lady Shackleton. Isobel finally remembered her fury about Spratt ignoring Doctor Clarkson.
"Does Spratt need his vision checked? I'm sure Doctor Clarkson could fit him in for you?"
Violet was actually pleased at this, this passionate defense of Doctor Clarkson. "I've spoken to Spratt before...cake." She augmented with a wave of her hand. "It won't happen again."
Isobel turned to the woman who was actually becoming a friend, "Please, see that it doesn't."
While it was still Saturday and his day off Richard found he couldn't settle. He tried reading yet couldn't focus on a sentence. Sighing he left his cottage and went to the hospital. The staff said nothing about his presence which he was grateful for.
Isobel left the dowager countess and strolled through the village. As she passed a shop a thought struck her and she went inside.
Clarkson was cloistered in his office, hearing a soft knock he rose from his desk and went to open the door. One the other side was Isobel Crawley, with a brown box in her hands.
"What do I owe the honor?" He said with a smile as he extended his arm in invitation.
Isobel blushed and went inside moving towards his desk so she could put the box down. She then began tugging on the strings and the flaps of the box fell apart revealing a small cake.
Richard was behind her looking over her shoulder, "Did I miss your birthday?"
She knew damn well that he hadn't. "No, I was walking back from Violet's and I stopped by the shop and thought we might enjoy some cake."
Richard sighed through his nose, he knew that was not the case. He bullied his mind to come up with the true reason and remembered his encounter with Spratt. Today had been the same with the damned coffee. No doubt she had seen and no doubt she had asked Old Lady Grantham about it. "Most of the time I can handle it, being ignored. That day I wanted to prove a point... truth be told I don't really care for cake."
At his admission she turned to see him, his suit jacket had been abandoned and in its place he wore his white coat.
White light, all colors.
It hit her then, this man treated everyone yet he was ignored. She was not going to ignore him. Shyly she stepped forward into his personal space. He only managed the first syllable of her name before her lips met his.