For Jayneysuk.
Unaccountably, she was nowhere to be found for the entire afternoon, despite both the hospital and the convalescent home being as busy as ever. He thought irritably that her highly inconvenient unexplained absence proved just what she'd been telling him for months, in not so many words; he was pushed to manage without her. He realised that she was very good at reading his mind so that what he needed next was always ready before he had to ask for it, and it was only now that he had to do without it that he really noticed. As soon as the busyness that usually arose at about three o'clock in the afternoon when any new patients would arrive had died down he set about trying to find her.
He found her in the office that they shared, sitting at her desk which faced the window and looked out over the hospital garden. She did not turn around, she gave no indication that she had heard the door open at all. For a moment he stood in the doorway watching her figure hunched slightly in her chair, still feeling his irritation with her because of the trouble she had caused him by not being present, and now that she did not acknowledge him even more so. He waited a few seconds longer, and when she still did not respond to him, he moved into the room to stand beside her, looking down at her in profile.
And he saw that she was crying. Able to see her face in profile he clearly beheld a tear trickling slowly down her soaked cheek, her fist loosely curled and pressed against her trembling lips to prevent herself from sobbing. Irritated as he had been with her a moment ago, he equally realised that this was certainly not the moment to bring up the matter.
"Mrs Crawley?" he asked nervously, "What ever is wrong?"
As if noticing for the first time that he was there, she looked up at him, visibly shaking. Not wanting to overwhelm her by bearing over her like his, he crouched down beside the desk so that he was shorter than her, daringly taking hold of her hands to try and comfort her and gently turning her around to sit facing him.
"What is the matter?" he asked again.
Once again, she dissolved into tears. Something was badly badly wrong. She was not crying at all elegantly, her beautiful face was contorted with grief as her hands clumsily scooped a folded, slightly crumpled piece of paper off the desk in front of her and put it into his hands. Leaning forward onto his knees before her, he began to read the paper. It was a telegram.
Mrs Crawley, it is with regret that we write to inform you...
"Oh, Mrs Crawley," he murmured under his breath. He knew very well what was coming next.
...that a body had been identified as that of your son, Captain Matthew Crawley. He died honourably and in battle.
"Oh God, Isobel," he whispered, putting the telegram down, unable to read any further.
Her hands were pressed over her face, her shoulder quivering. He had never seen her like this before. He had never seen her fall apart like this, and he had hoped he never would. Both to console her and himself, he reached out and drew her into his arms, kneeling between her knees, holding her body tightly against his, her arms tucked between them. She curled over and her head rested on his shoulder. Smoothing his hands up and down her back, he swayed back and forwards to try and soothe her.
By the time he got back up again, the sun had fallen and it was dark.
…...
They did not speak as he gently wiped her eyes with his handkerchief, tucking the loose strand of hair at her temple back behind her ear, helping to wrap her up in her coat and scarf, folding up the telegram and putting it into his own pocket so that she wouldn't have to see it again, at least not at the moment. Putting his arm around her, partly to comfort her, partly to steady her and partly to keep her from the cold, he guided her out of the hospital through the back door so as not to attract the attention of the nurses, and out into the wide and cold night.
"I don't want to go to Crawley House," she told him abruptly as they turned left, "Please don't make me go back there. I can't face the thought of having to tell Molesley and Mrs Bird what's happened. And the messages of condolence from the big house might have arrived, they might even be waiting to see me there. They mean well, but I don't want them, I don't want any of them now."
There was silence for a moment. He stood there, wondering what he could reasonably suggest. For him, the ideal was to take her back to his house so that he could keep watch over her; he was intensely worried about her in this state, but he was almost certain she wouldn't be comfortable with that idea. It occurred to him to ask if she would feel better about going back to Crawley House if he came with her. Then;
"Can I stay with you? At your house?" she asked in little more than a whisper, a mixture of timidity and exhaustion, exhaling all of the breath she was holding onto in one deep stream that condensed silver on the cold blue air.
"Of course you can," he replied, tightening his arms around her for just a second before turning back around and leading her towards his house instead, "I'd feel better if you did, I didn't want to leave you alone, anyway," he confessed, "I want to see that you're alright."
When she let out a little sob he realised that he had chosen his words slightly carelessly.
"Sorry," he whispered to her, "I know there's not much chance of that. But you know what I mean."
He thought he felt her head nod slightly against his shoulder. Walking a little more briskly he hurried her over the threshold of his house and into the warmth, shutting the door tightly behind her.
Everything had changed between them, he realised, now that she was here with him like this. They could no longer tell themselves that they were only colleagues. They were friends at the very least. She had asked him for refuge, and he had taken her in without a second thought. Everything had changed between them from the moment he had found her crying and had not left her, as he would have probably done with anyone else, and she had allowed him to see her like that. He was ready to take care of her, he was under no illusions about the fact that he would do anything for her; all that he had to do was to take care that he did not make her uncomfortable. He would do exactly what she wanted, give her anything she needed.
His arms were still holding her up. He suspected she was too much in shock to do anything.
"Let's put your coat on the peg," he told her, gently taking it off her and unwinding her scarf.
When he turned back to her she was standing still, her hands hanging by her sides. Obviously she did not know what to do with herself, she was waiting to be told what to do.
"Isobel," he told her quietly, leading her towards the stairs, "I'm going to run you a bath, you'll feel better for having a wash, and while you're in the bath I'm going to make us some supper. You need to eat," he told her firmly, ready to head off any objection that came, "As soon as you've eaten you can go to bed, but I do insist that you eat."
She only nodded blandly, sitting down on the wicker chair in the bathroom as he turned on the taps.
"You can have my bed for the night," he told her, "I'll sleep in the sitting room." Opening the cupboard, he spotted a problem. "I'm afraid I haven't got a nightdress to offer you, only pyjamas. Is that alright?"
"That's fine," she replied, looking at the floor. Still, he saw the blank look in her eye, and it unnerved him, it broke his heart.
"Isobel," he knelt before her, his hand resting gently on her knee, "Please don't shut me out. I know this is the worst thing that could have happened to you, and I can't possibly imagine how you feel. But if you want to talk, please talk to me. I will do anything to help you, Isobel, you know that, don't you? Anything."
She nodded slowly, the look in her eyes almost more than he could bear. He was reminded of what he had done in the office when they were like this, wrapped his arms around her, and wanted badly to do it again, but this was too intimate a setting. It would unnerve her. He stood up and turned the taps off and place the pyjamas on the lid of the washing basket.
"Have your bath," he told her, "Then come downstairs for something to eat."
Please let me know what you think.