Richard "Dickie" Merton took the mail from the butler and began to go through the letters. Most were for him, but a few were for Isobel and one in particular struck him, because of the address in Cornwall and had fine penmanship. It also caught his eye because it was addressed to Isobel Crawley, not Baroness Merton. He handed the letter to her as they sat at the breakfast table. "You've a letter from a John Gardener in Chepstow. Should I be jealous?"

She smiled in amusement although he had the sense that she was puzzled. "I don't know anyone by the name and I haven't been to Cornwall in decades." She looked at the envelope and Dickie had the sense that something about it brought back a memory. "The handwriting… This Mr. Gardener has as fine a hand as Matthew did." She sighed. "He wrote so well, I hope little George has the gift as well. Now, let's see what this Mr. Gardener wants." With that she wielded the letter opener with a deft hand and began reading the letter.

In seconds, Dickie realized something was terribly wrong. His wife's hands shook as she stared at the letter, and her face had gone a dreadful grey. Bad news, he thought worriedly, likely a death, something unexpected. "Isobel, what's wrong?"

She held up her hand to silence him while she continued to read the letter. Finally, she looked up, her eyes welling up with tears, and she handed him the letter. "Dickie," she said almost breathlessly, "tell me this letter says what I think it says."

He took it and read it, realizing in seconds why she was so startled. So startled and so desperate to not look hopeful. "It says what you think, Isobel, but… you know this is impossible. The man who wrote this is at best ill in the head, he even says as much. At worst, he's a liar." He hesitated, because it was harsh and he had no wish to inflict pain on his wife. "Did you ever have a moment's doubt, Isobel?"

He could see her hesitate. "No," she said finally. "That moment… that moment in the morgue… I was certain. But… I allowed Lady Mary to have her way with a closed casket because of that moment in the morgue where I broke down." She wiped her eyes. "If it helped her, I wanted to spare her. Because… because Matthew never wanted anyone to remember him in a casket. I bore it so she didn't have to. It was my gift to her… But I won't lie and say I checked his pulse, Richard." She suddenly sobbed, letting her head rest in hands. "Oh god, have I made a horrible mistake?"

He got up and moved to her side of the table, taking her into his arms. "If for some reason, this is true, it's a joyous thing, not a horrible mistake. But… Isobel… you do understand this is most likely some sad fellow making claims that can't be proven?"

The last thing he wanted was for her to believe it. The best resolution was that it was some disturbed man, a war vet most likely, who was a confused and damaged soul being encouraged by others. At worst, it was a con man who understood that there was still money to be had from the Crawley family. The letter read like the former, but Isobel had been protective of him in a dark moment and he didn't intend to not protect her in a similar moment.

"I… I know it's most likely not true," Isobel said after a long moment, "but now that's it been said, I need to make certain it's not true. I can't ignore this, Dickie. I don't think it can be true, but I can't pretend I didn't receive this letter."

He smiled and took her hands. "Of course you must investigate this, Isobel. But you won't be doing it alone. I'm your husband and I will be at your side on this."

He just hoped it was some sad fool with problems and not the con man he suspected.

0o0o0o0

It was a pleasant little town, Isobel thought as they entered the town of Chepstow. A little seaside town littered with bohemian artists, fishermen, and quaint pubs and inns. At least, she considered as they pulled up to the small police station, if I had to engage Dickie in a wild goose chase, I picked a pleasant town to do it. The investigative chore would have been much worse in Leeds.

"So we're here," Dickie said brightly. He gave her a careful look. "Isobel, I can do this. You don't have to prove anything to me. I know what Matthew looked like. You've told me what identifying scars he had. You don't have to put yourself through this."

It was sweet, the considerate ways Dickie had. "I know you would do this, but I feel I must. Matthew is my son, and I must do my duty to his memory, and to his wife and son. I need to see this John Gardener and be absolutely certain in my mind that he is not Matthew. I have to be sure."

She couldn't let Dickie handle it. If she didn't see the man herself, she'd always have a lingering doubt that a mistake had been made. The problem was that while she liked Dr. Richard Clarkson as a friend, she had realized within days of meeting him and watching him work that he wasn't her first husband's equal as a doctor. Clarkson had pronounced Matthew dead after the car accident. It was the blood loss that killed him, Clarkson had told her, the injuries from the car crash weren't necessarily fatal but it had taken too long to get him to the hospital. She had looked at the body because Mary had been hysterical. Matthew had been deathly pale but clean, someone had washed the worst of the blood off his face and clothes. There was utterly no doubt in her mind that she had seen her son that night, her sweet, badly broken little boy lying on an uncomfortable table. She'd never had a moment's doubt.

Until the letter. She didn't admit it to Dickie because she sensed he was already concerned that she had the unrealistic expectation that Matthew was somehow not dead, and she didn't want him to worry. The letter was written in Matthew's handwriting. It had genuinely startled her. She had, when Dickie had left the house to tend a chore before they left, made a point of finding Matthew's letters from the war and compared them. She would admit to not being an expert but they looked identical. More importantly, the letter sounded like Matthew. Carefully explaining himself, apologizing for dredging up a painful time, describing his experiences as a man who found himself with no memory of his past and injuries he couldn't explain. Even if John Gardener was just a man with a sad story, he certainly told a compelling story, and he told it with the written cues that Matthew had used. More importantly, the injuries described matched what she had seen that terrible night. The newspapers had all written about the tragedy but all that had been reported was that Matthew had been killed in a car wreck. If it was a guess, it was a damned lucky one. The fact that Gardener had expressed concern about being wrong, that he freely admitted his memory was suspect and that he had no intention of contacting anyone else in the family until she had met with him and confirmed his belief that he was Matthew Crawley sounded like Matthew as well, as did his listing several references in the town he lived at who would confirm his story if asked. Gardener sounded like a man with a genuine belief about his identity, and a man who understood he was asking a difficult question that could cause problems, whether the answer was yes or no. It reminded her of Matthew.

It compelled her to check. She hadn't checked Matthew's body, she had been too overwhelmed at seeing him lying so still on the table to even think of touching him. The casket had been closed, Mary had been adamant, and no one felt the need to cross her. The handwriting made her doubt herself, the contents of the letter forced her hand. She didn't sense any malignant intent in the letter. The odds were very much in favor of her being a silly old woman. If that was the case, then she was a silly old woman who took a long shot chance and was wrong. If John Gardener was genuine, and not a con man, then she would be helping the poor man by setting him straight. And if he was a con man, then she could warn the family. "I find the fact that he listed the local police inspector as a contact as somewhat heartening that whoever he is, he's not afraid to involve the authorities."

"Or they're in cahoots," Dickie said gently. "Although I admit, that this Gardener also listed Lady Barwick as a reference eased my mind about it being an imposter. I knew her as a young man. She's not a fool, and not one that would indulge such a claim from an employee unless she thought it had merit." He took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. "That said, I do hope that you haven't gotten your hopes up, Isobel."

"I haven't," she lied. "But I have to be certain, and this poor man needs a definitive answer as well."

They walked into the small police station and in seconds were greeted by the local inspector, Jeremy Edwards. He was a somewhat short man, with dark hair and eyes and burn scars on his hands that told her he was a war veteran. He led them to a small room away from the bustling office.

"I'm so glad you were willing to come," he said as they sat down. He set a file down onto the table. "Frankly, I've been getting nowhere with the constabulary in Ripon, and John… Mr. Gardener… didn't want Scotland Yard involved."

"I can't imagine why," Dickie said dryly.

Edwards smiled slightly. "Lord Merton, I must tell you, when John approached me with the news that his memories of his prior life had started to return in a meaningful way, my first instinct, three months ago, was to contact Mrs. Crawley… I mean Baronness Merton. John insisted we wait until he was more certain he was right, and I am absolutely certain that if he is wrong, if your wife isn't convinced by seeing him, that he has no intention of pursuing it further." He seemed to consider them both carefully. "I would not have suspected when I met John five years ago that he would become one of my closest friends. He shared his suspicions with me three months ago. It took me that long to convince him to contact you. He's… quite worried that if he's right, that it's somehow a terrible problem."

Isobel found herself suddenly curious about what Inspector Edwards actually knew. "I'm sorry, Inspector… Do you not know who my son was?"

"I know he was in the Army, and that he was never arrested, and that he reportedly died the day his son was born, in a car wreck." Edwards sighed and opened up the folder he'd brought. "I don't mean to be indelicate but this is a difficult story to tell without sharing some unpleasant details. Three days after your son's death, there was a terrible lorry wreck here in Chepstow. It was a lorry filled with human cadavers, meant for a medical school near London. I didn't know this until the whole grisly business but apparently medical schools pay hospitals for unclaimed bodies. The driver died in the wreck and… imagine our surprise when one of the corpses started moving. We took him to the hospital. I'll be honest, I didn't think the man would live. He didn't wake up for close to two weeks and when he did, he could barely speak a word and he didn't know a thing about himself or how he came to be in a cadaver truck. We contacted other precincts with his description but we really had no idea where he was from and neither did he. He became something of a local sensation, the doctor said it was clear from the scars on his body that he had been in hard service during the war. Lady Barwick took an interest… she lost all of her sons in the war and has a soft spot for the occasional veteran who needs help. She offered to take John in as an assistant to her gardener."

"Yes," Isobel said, her patience beginning to falter. "Mr. Gardener explained the origin of his name and that he'd been severely injured."

"Let me be blunt." Edwards's tone was firm but pleasant. "I have no reason to believe he's lying about what he thinks his memories are telling him. I can assure you that he has no desire or need to attempt to trick you or any other member of your family out of money. I wouldn't call John wealthy, except in friends, but Lady Barwick treasures him. He's her head gardener now, he has a cottage, money in the bank and is well liked and well respected. I play chess with him at the pub, and the artist crowd adores his poetry, one of them even wants to publish his work. If he's wrong, and looking at you, I think he might be since I don't see any likeness between the two of you, I would ask that you be kind. Because what he remembers matches what I had learned about your son, I encouraged him to contact you, and so did Lady Barwick, but his greatest fear was opening this ugly can of worms only to hurt innocent people."

If anything, it reassured her on two counts. Edwards was clearly talking about a friend, a man he held in high regard, a friend he was worried about. And, she and Matthew didn't favor each other at all. "I have no intention of being unkind, Inspector Edwards. I made the decision to come here in part because I was worried that this man is most likely wrong and he needs to know that so he can look elsewhere and continue his search. Where is he? We shouldn't let this linger."

"He's in one of the back rooms here, waiting, and probably thumbing through a book from the library." Edwards smiled, but she could see he had more to say. "John is much recovered, but I must warn you, he still has difficulties. He couldn't speak at first, he had to relearn how. On a day to day basis, he speaks well but when he's upset or emotional, he stammers or stutters. He sometimes struggles to find words, and uses words that aren't right. For example if you ask him to say this is a pen, he might call it a pen, or a jacket, or an orange. And that happens more when he's under stress. The less you draw attention to it, the less it happens. The head injury also causes headaches and he sometimes has fits. Seizures, the doctor calls them, although he hasn't had one in a bit. That's the other reason I'd ask you to be kind." He seemed to sense their concern. "There's nothing wrong with him mentally. He routinely beats us all at chess, he writes beautifully… but the speech issues sometimes give him the appearance of being slow. He's not, don't make that mistake."

"He mentioned those things in his letter as well," Isobel said worriedly. She put aside the concerns it caused if the man was actually Matthew. That was asking for problems that didn't yet exist. "Perhaps we should all stop torturing each other with our concern. Why don't you fetch Mr. Gardener so we can see each other and then decide if we have to take this further?"

Edwards nodded. "You're right," he said as he rose to his feet. "There's no reason to put it off. Let me get John." He left the small interrogation room.

Dickie took her hand. "I hope, for your sake, that a miracle is about to happen, Isobel, but please know I am here for you if this is just some poor fellow who is confused."

She squeezed his hand, grateful he was there for her. It will be some poor fellow, she told herself, a poor fellow who will be the wrong height, and have the wrong color eyes, and you'll have to tell him he's not your son, that whatever was misfiring in his injured head was wrong. And then Dickie will drive us home and no one will ever find out that you indulged a silly, unrealistic hope. She braced herself for the truth she had faced before, that Matthew was gone.

And then he stepped into the small room. He looked older, and his hair had that sun bleached look that happened when he spent too much time in the sun. He looked nervous, but his eyes lit up when he saw her stand up. "I… I don't know what to say…"

Isobel grabbed him and pulled him into her arms. "Oh my poor dear boy," she said through her own tears, "There's nothing to say, not yet. Just let me hold you."

Behind her, she could hear Dickie chuckling. To Edwards, who had stepped back into the room, he said with no small amount of amusement, "I don't think she's sure yet, Mr. Edwards, you'll need to let her hug him a bit more."

0o0o0o0

Be calm, Matthew told himself as they all sat down at a small table at the pub, the more excited you get, the worse you sound. Edwards had come with them, to assist with the more awkward questions and just to support him. "I don't… know where to begin…"

His mother wiped her eyes again. "I admit," she said after a long moment, "I have no idea what to ask you, Matthew. Are you well? You look well, but the letter and your friend Mr. Edwards said you were still having difficulties."

Where to begin, he thought. "I'm… much b-better than where I started." He waved his hands around the small pub, taking it all in. "I… couldn't say a word. I walked with crutches… People here were very kind to me… very patient…" It was an understatement. Even before the true miracle of his memory returning, he knew he'd been blessed beyond belief to have been dropped from no where, with no name or history, into Chepstow. "I was very lucky but… Dr. Alford said the s-seizures and headaches may lessen… but they may not." He took a deep breath and let it out, worried how Isobel would handle that piece of news. He'd had much longer to accept the diagnosis. It was hardly the worst problem he had faced, truth be told. Barely being able to say please and thank you let alone express himself beyond yes and no and writing notes had been the worst trial beyond knowing nothing about himself. "It could be… much worse," he reassured.

Much to his surprise, his mother laughed. "Oh my goodness, Matthew… I'm sitting with you in a pub and you're alive. We're having a conversation." She took his hand and held it firmly. "I don't mean to dismiss it. It's a concern, but many people live with epilepsy, Matthew. It sounds like you've been managing quite well…" She hesitated. "That isn't why you hesitated to contact me, when your memory returned, is it?"

That surprised him. "No…. no…." And then he felt his words clench up inside his brain. "I…" He looked desperately at Edwards.

Edwards smiled. "John… Matthew… was worried that he was wrong. That he was reading things in the newspaper and confabulating a back story. It happens sometimes, with people with head injuries." Matthew nodded, knowing it was true, if just partly. Calm down, he told himself, willing the block between his thoughts and his words to dissolve. It wasn't the only reason he'd hesitated.

Dickie Merton, of all people, seemed to sense his discomfort. "I'm curious, I must admit. When did you remember your past, Matthew? Did you just wake up one morning and realize you weren't John Gardener?"

An easier topic. "It… didn't come all at once. Little things… I couldn't connect them… The roses…." He looked at the two of them. "Mr. Emerson, the old gardener, t-taught me how to t-tend Lady Barwick's roses… I remember one day looking at a blossom and thinking 'this one is so lovely, I'd beat Mr. Mosely's roses in the flower show'. And then I was asking myself who was Mr. Mosely." That had been the first moment, almost two years earlier, and every time he'd had a moment, he wrote about it in his journal. "I… knew my name wasn't really John. As things and names started to come to me…Like Jeremy said… I was afraid I was wrong. That I'd hurt some family and be wrong…." It was true, just partly true. Once he had connected to a name, he had used the local library to the fullest extent. It had puzzled him, when he first began to awaken from the amnesiac stupor and recall old friends and family, that no one had ever looked for him, until he found the news stories and obituaries of his own death. And then the other news stories had further stayed his hand. He didn't know how to broach the subject.

Dickie seemed to sense his struggle. "Did you know," the older man said pleasantly, "that your mother and I were married?" He smiled at Isobel fondly.

"I saw it… in the newspapers." Matthew felt suddenly awkward. It was something he'd always wished for, especially during and after the war, that his mother would find someone. He chuckled at his mother's suddenly concerned expression. "I can hardly object n-now, can I? I'm g-glad for you… for both of you…"

Merton smiled. "You certainly took it better than Larry and Patrick did. And don't feel bad about missing the wedding, Larry and Patrick didn't come either, and they had a much worse excuse than yours."

It eased the tension, it let him spit out the thing he needed to say. "I didn't know what to do. That's why… I waited. I'm… this is going to hurt people."

"What do you mean," Isobel asked quizzically. "Matthew, this is a miracle. No one is going to be upset that you're alive. Everyone will be overjoyed, as overjoyed as I am right now."

"Isobel…" Dickie said, his tone suddenly concerned. He gripped her hand. "It occurs to me that Matthew is right to be concerned. I think Henry at the very least might not be overjoyed to find out Matthew is alive." He gave Matthew a sharp, respectful look. "Your friend Jeremy here is right, Matthew. I can see how carefully you speak, that it's difficult, but you have your mother's clever mind. You saw that Mary remarried. That made you reconsider contacting anyone in the family, because it will create a huge mess, made worse that that you're also Robert's heir still, which will make an even worse mess."

"Yes," he said breathlessly. It was so much more than that. He'd been thought dead for five years, he could hardly blame his wife for thinking it. He could hardly blame her for trying to find happiness. They had promised to love each other as long as they both walked the earth, and if he understood the papers correctly, she had stood by what she thought was his grave and watched it be filled. She'd mourned him decently. He had no right to take her from a new love, especially when he was hardly the man he once was. Worse, with him discovered alive, it would cast a pall on her new marriage. It was unintentional bigamy, but it was bigamy, and it would be a bigger scandal than his being found alive and working on an estate as a gardener. And that would be a scandal as well, that the heir to the earldom had somehow survived. Merton was being generous, he knew what he sounded like, on a good day the stuttering and stammering was minimal but he knew that when he met new people that that they assumed he was half witted. It was a terrible mess.

Isobel paled as she considered it, obviously seeing the problems for the first time. "Still," she said firmly, taking his hand as if to reassure herself that he was real, "you did decide to reach out, and these are problems that can be dealt with." She waited a long moment. "What convinced you to take the step forward and contact me?"

Matthew let his fingers encircle hers. It was the right choice, he told himself. It was going to hurt his family but it was also going to bring them joy. "The good… outweighs the bad. Once I was certain, I couldn't live a lie, even though I can't regret the time here, or the friends I've made, the life I've lived." It was strange to feel the words flow so easily. "It was George. I couldn't… No matter the problems it causes…" He laughed suddenly. "I remember when Father died, that I would find myself… wishing that a miracle would happen, that despite his dying, that… one day he'd simply come home and I could have more time with him. George… shouldn't have to feel like that, to always wonder about missing time with father. It's… going to hurt but I couldn't… I couldn't know he was out there, wondering and hoping his father would… show up."

"And any difficulty that comes," his mother said, "I want you to know I support you and I want you to remember that this is a miracle and any pain it causes is worth having you here again."

He knew his mother would say that. She wasn't the one he worried about.