All is fair in Love and War

Chapter 1 - Scarred

"Scars have the strange power to remind us that our past is real." ~ Cormac McCarthy

Downton Abbey, 1920

Isobel Crawley's hand was shaking. At first she didn't realized it, but as soon as she forced her eyes away from his scarred hand back to her own plate, she saw how her knife wiggled uncontrollably over her broccoli. Hoping no one would notice her state, she put the silverware down and sipped from her wine. The alcohol did nothing to help. Her hand was still trembling when she picked up her knife again.

She scolded herself. She was overreacting.

It couldn't be. It made no sense. It wasn't true.

She was seeing ghosts.

That, however would not be such a surprise. With Matthew and Mary's wedding ahead, there was a lot to think about and a lot to do. Her busy mind was playing a trick on her, because she was tired. That was all.

She decided to concentrate on her food again, but suddenly every piece of the delicious bite in her mouth turned to sawdust. Against her better judgement her eyes travelled across the table and came to rest on the back of his hand. The scar. There was something about the scar, something so unique that she had never forgotten about it. She had seen it before, had taken care of the wound, that had been inflicted by a small machete, near a battlefield. She still heard the cannon fire, the drums, and screams of pain. So much blood, so many wounded men, so many desperate tears no one had wanted to talk about once the war was all over.

More than once the hand marked by that scar had caressed her bare skin, had caused her to shiver, had taught her desire and joy…

She cleared her throat. She was wrong. It was just the scar looking very similar to the one she remembered...

He was sitting next to Cora, engaged in a pleasant conversation, but Isobel was afraid to raise her eyes to have another look at him. The last thing she wanted was for anyone to notice her interest in him - especially not he or the Dowager Countess. She was afraid the mere memory of something she had shared with a man that surely wasn't him, couldn't be him, could cause irritation among the family and the other guests. Violet was already at her best when it came to picking on Tom Branson and she didn't need that attention for herself right now.

Whil she swallowed another sip of her wine, she tried to sort out her confusion. How would it make sense for him to sit at the same table? Tonight she had arrived after him and his family, had missed Carson announcing their family name. What was his name?

Matthew had mentioned Mary's godfather's family would attend the dinner, but she hadn't paid a lot of attention to the details. The Crawleys had so many friends and acquaintances. She had lost count of them a long time ago, since she barely met any of them more than once. Now she wished she had listened to her son.

Surely she could ask Matthew now, but there had to be another way to get the information without arousing his curiosity. After all she only needed the assurance that she was actually mistaken, so very much mistaken.

Her glass was empty. She sighed inwardly when Carson was suddenly behind her, offering to refill it. What must he think of her? Isobel nodded and the butler poured her another glass. For a moment the noise around the table died down and she heard Cora's smooth voice addressing him, but she still didn't catch his name.

What's in a name, anyway?

A clear, warning voice in the back of her head forbid her to go back in time to remember how she had taken care of his injury... or how it had felt when he had made love to her.

For a second too long Isobel looked across the table. Their eyes met and then she quickly looked down, trying to ignore the heat she felt rising in her cheeks. Knowing she was making an utter fool of herself, she forced herself to look up again. He was still staring at her and she knew from the look in his eyes that he knew.

He knew who she was.

She hadn't been mistaken.

She returned his gaze, and slightly, ever so slightly she shook her head. He understood. Grateful Isobel watched him chat with Cora again, giving her the attention a hostess deserved.

"Mother?"

Matthew's voice was a welcome distraction from the arriving waves of unwanted memories. She looked at him with a wide smile, "What is it?"

"Are you all right?"

"Of course." She picked up her wine glass.

"Good… you seemed preoccupied."

"I'm not." She was still smiling, but Matthew understood the underlying message and changed the subject.

"I got a telegram today," Matthew reported. "I forget to tell you this afternoon. Alexander will arrive tomorrow around midday."

"I see. How curious, after all this time…."

She had almost forgotten about him. Matthew had told her about the invitation he had sent to his godfather, but Isobel had feared he would decline. As head physician in the biggest hospital in Manchester, Sir Alexander Ferguson was after all a busy man. The lifelong bacholer had given his life to his job and with growing age he had become less and less sociable. They hadn't or heard seen him since they had left Manchester, despite the letters Matthew had written over the years. Isobel wasn't too keen to see him again, but it meant the world to Matthew to have his godfather at his wedding.

"I've spoken to Cora and she said, he could stay here," Matthew continued eagerly.

"How nice of her. I'll thank her later."

"I was very pleased to hear from him. After all, he was the one of those who encouraged me to come to Downton, despite my initial doubts."

Again Isobel didn't answer. Matthew noticed her lack of interest with growing frustration and gave up. Instead of addressing his mother again, he gave Tom Branson a side glance. The young man was clearly not himself. There was sweat on his forehead, his face was flushed, and his voice was unsteady, while he loudly ranted about Irish politics…

After dinner the women went to the drawing room to have their coffee, while the men stayed behind to enjoy their port and a cigar. Isobel was glad to catch a break from all the tension that had surrounded the dinner table. As cruel, dumb, and unnecessary Larry Grey's prank had been, it had at least given her the chance to distract Matthew, and everyone else who might have noticed, from her pensive mood.

While the other women gathered around the fireplace, Isobel was stuck with the Dowager in the corner of the room. She barely heard what the older woman was saying. The beautiful and grand drawing room felt almost claustrophobic, an experience she wasn't used to. She had never been someone to be easily intimidated, but tonight she felt utterly cornered by his presence - and the obvious presence of his wife. Almost unable to take her eyes from the dark-haired, but serious-looking woman who was talking to Cora, Isobel clung to her saucer as if her life depended on it.

"Did someone spike your coffee or am I really that uninteresting?" Violet asked, when she realized Isobel paid even less attention to her than usually.

"No, why…." Isobel looked dumbfounded at the Dowager. "I'm sorry. I was just thinking..."

"May I ask what's wrong? I'm a good listener."

Isobel made a face, taking Violet's offer with a grain of salt."Nothing's wrong, I was just thinking about Larry and his family."

Violet scoffed, a little annoyed, "I admit they're more interesting than I've given them credit for."

"I don't think I've ever seen them around here before."

"The late Lord Grantham and Lord Merton's father were close friends. Our families go back a long way."

Merton… Merton… did she ever hear the name before? She was pretty sure that he had never been introduced to her as Lord Merton… maybe she was wrong after all. Uneasy she moved in her seat. "That doesn't really answer my question though."

"No, but there's nothing more to say about it. Lord Merton is a peer and before he succeeded his father, he was in diplomatic service, whatever that means. Rumour has it his wife's not happy with him being home too often."

Isobel covered her surprise about Violet's last remark with a fakes cough and finished her coffee. Damn the British upper class with its names and titles. Damn, the conventions and the ceremony. There was no logic and no common sense in any of it. Maybe she had to look up his name in their volume of Burke's Peerage… right now she was desperate enough to sneak into Robert's library to check just to calm her nerves - or to come to terms with the fact that she was facing a problem, if the man was who she thought he was.

"The more important question at hand is, whether you'll help me to make at least half a gentleman out of Brans… Tom for the wedding. Matthew picked him as his best man and I'm sure not even you want him to look like an ordinary salesman."

Isobel shrugged. "I'll ask Molesley to look through Matthew's morning coats. I think one of them will fit him."

Violet was pleased. "That's the first normal thing you've said since we first met."

Bretagne, 1918

The dark sky over the rough sea was seething. Heavy Rain was hitting the window and the light on the small table at the wall barely spent enough light for him to see the small buttons of his vest. The wind outside was icy and the cold draught sneaked in through the narrow gaps of the old window. It didn't help that his right hand was heavily bandaged and hurt like hell.

"Can I help?" He heard her soft chuckle behind him and turned around.

"I feel useless," he admitted defeated. He looked at his hand and sighed.

"Well then, I'll give it a try." She loosened the knot of his tie and redid it, before she bothered with the small buttons of his vest.

He watched her closely while her fingers efficiently fulfilled their tasks. She was wrapped in her dressing gown, her long, blonde, silvery hair was open and fell over her delicate shoulders. She looked so fragile, yet she was strong and swift in everything she did. She hadn't changed a bit since he had last seen her all those years ago.

"You're better than any valet I've ever known or seen," he said, embarrassingly aware of her nearness, of her warm, naked body underneath the practical fabric of the robe. Her scent filled his nose and he suddenly wished he could stay with her in this small, cold room for the rest of time.

"Do you have a valet?" she asked. It was the first time, she was asking a personal question. They had the silent understanding that their lives outside this war was off limits. Trying to hide his astonishment he cleared his throat. "At home, yes, but believe it or not, I can dress myself without his help."

She smiled amused, but didn't reply. She focused on fixing his tie. "I hope I did him justice," she said, after she had finished.

"I'm sure you have."

She placed her hands on his chest, raised herself on tiptoes and kissed him. At first tenderly and then with growing passion.

"Thank you," he mumbled against her mouth when she broke the kiss.

"For helping you getting dressed?" she asked.

"For saving my life," he clarified and showed her his injured hand. "Without you I would probably be dead by now."

She slightly shook her head and kissed him again. "I consider last night your thank you gift for me."

He crooked his eyebrow, as he ran his healthy hand over her back, imagining how it would feel to caress her bare skin again. "In that case I insist you charge me with interest. I doubt my dues are paid off."

"Are you sure?" she asked and again for the first time, she seemed a little self-conscious.

"Quite sure… unless you ask me to go."

"That's not it…. I just thought…. You haven't found what you were looking for yet. Maybe you have to leave…"

"I'm not sure I'm done here just yet," he said and pulled her closer. "Have dinner with me tonight."

The hesitation was gone when she accepted his invitation with another kiss. "I will," she said, as she brushed her lips over his mouth. "I'm sure you need someone to help you getting undressed again."

*********tbc*********

So, I'm back and I admit I'm messing with you... ;-) Let me know, what you think :-)