Title: Quarter After One
Pairing: Isobel and Richard
Rating: K (may change as story progresses)
Summary: One conversation changes everything.
Spoilers: Set sometime after the end of season two but nothing specific.
Disclaimer: The characters here in are not mine and as such I make no financial gain. I take them out, play a little and return them as is.
Authors Notes: The love the song the Lady Antebellum and just had to write a fic around it.
For Cathy. I hope you like.
Quarter After One
Part One
The bedroom was in darkness, the dark cloudy night preventing even the faintest of light from the moon filtering through the curtains. Isobel lay caught up in the quilt, the pillows discarded on the floor in one of her more frustrated moments, her arm flung over her eyes, blocking out the room, as she tried to force her body to give in to the exhaustion. It was to no avail. Finally, she sat bolt upright in bed, letting out a deep groan and throwing the covers to one side in a flamboyant gesture of irritation. It was becoming increasingly apparent that she sleep wasn't going to be forthcoming any time soon and being awake was only precipitating her dispirited thoughts.
Reaching out one hand, she gently felt her way over the small bed side table, finally locating her gold wrist watch. The black hands against the white dial showed it was quarter past one, causing her to elicit a deep moan. It had been three hours since she had first climbed into bed, a little longer since she had watched him, him being the man she thought she would spend the rest of her life with, walk out of her house for the last time. For the first hour she had sobbed pathetically into her pillow, clutching one of his shirts tightly against her face, mourning their relationship until her throat was bone dry and she felt emotionally and physically drained. Briefly she had closed her eyes, but instead of enduring a fitful sleep, which would have been somewhat of a godsend, she had tossed and turned endlessly, replaying the evening in her head, wondering how her life had so easily fallen apart. It all sounded a little melodramatic, even to her own ears, more akin to Edith's lamenting than her own, but she couldn't help herself. One simple conversation and she could never imagine being happy again.
The evening itself had started so pleasantly. Richard had arrived early, greeting her with a chaste kiss, his hand lingering on her arm as they walked through the house, a romantic a gesture as they allowed themselves in the company of others. At dinner they had sat across the table from one another, his fingers reaching across the linen to graze hers whenever they were alone. Even within the confines of her own home they were discrete but affectionate, enjoying whatever moments they could steal together. As always the conversation had been easy, witty and often times flirty. There was no indication that within an hour there would come a turning point in their relationship and she would find herself doubting everything he had ever said and every moment they had shared.
With his hand gently resting on her lower back, she had allowed him to guide her into the drawing room. Richard had poured them each a glass of port and they had settled themselves on the small sofa by the fire as they did most evenings. The conversation had flowed comfortably for a few minutes before turning to the upcoming garden party at the Abbey, and that is where it all seemed to go wrong.
Isobel let out another groan in frustration and dropped unceremoniously back on the bed. In all fairness to Richard she had blind sighted him a little, although really knowing her as he did he should have been prepared. With the torrent of emotions that were cascading through her body she wasn't prepared to forgive him quite so soon.
They were discussing how much money the party would raise for the hospital and which equipment he could purchase, (his devotion to and belief in his little cottage hospital had always been endearing to her), when she had suggested they attend together. His face had contorted in something resembling disbelief and possibly horror, shaking his head vehemently as she had found herself turning into a hysterical school girl. Richard had tried to placate her with his quiet gentle tone which only served to annoy her. He had made it abundantly clear that they would go separately, but could maybe sit and take afternoon tea together. She had protested that it was perhaps the perfect opportunity to spend time together and 'out' themselves to the family, her family. Perfect because in such a public setting no one was likely to openly comment. Their sort of people were more discrete, or so cousin Violet frequently informed her. Hysterics had given way to frustration and annoyance, which seemed to surprise him a little but did nothing to change his mind. Richard had chosen that moment to dispute the need to tell anyone; which she supposed meant ever. That was when the rails came off completely.
Isobel still couldn't believe they disagreed on something so fundamental; Richard was adamant that he didn't want anyone to know about them, she was ready for everyone to know; she wanted to marry him, he hadn't considered marriage at all. She was only too thankful they were too old to consider starting a family together. It was fairly evident that he would disagree on that too. He had insisted that he loved her although, now in the darkness of the night, even that seemed like a distorted figment of her imagination. While she was pretty sure he cared more for her than just using her for a physical release, she was also convinced that after almost seven years of courting the time was upon them to take the next step. As it turned out it was she who was blind sighted by how little she knew the man she purported to love. The discussion had ended abruptly when one or other of them had suggested that maybe it was time to end their entanglement. The fact the other had agreed, or tacitly acknowledged there was no point arguing, was neither here nor there.
Richard had left, wishing her goodnight as though they had enjoyed a typical evening, his manners as exemplary as ever. As she stood in the hallway watching him walk away she felt Moseley's scrutiny and not wanting to endure it any longer she had feigned a headache. It was in the privacy of her bedroom that she had succumbed to her emotions, collapsing onto the bed and allowing the tears to fall.
She liked to think of herself as progressive; she had fought for woman's rights, took a profession when girls her age were finding husbands, and had taken a lover, a younger one at that, later in life, when knitting, writing and gardening should have been her outlets. But, and it was a big but, she wanted to be married to the man she loved, to be able to walk down the street hand in hand. She wanted to play his devoted wife, sharing his bed all night and spending her days indulging her grandchildren with him by her side.
Isobel glanced at the watch again, noting with irritation that it was barely ten minutes since she last checked. Resigned to a long night of troubled thoughts, she climbed out of bed, wrapping her robe around her and slipping on her slippers. Quietly, she tiptoed along the landing and down the stairs to the kitchen, intending to find a remedy to aid her sleep.
The house was silent, the staff, she hoped, asleep and Matthew away at the big house. It was rare that she was allowed in the kitchen, simple pleasures like cooking and baking no longer her domain, and it was only at night and the half day every other Tuesday that she had the freedom to indulge in her favourite pastime. Filling the kettle she placed it on the stove, waiting for the familiar hiss before locating the teapot and a solitary cup and saucer.
Footsteps, heavy and weary echoed from the hallway and she knew before the door opened who would impose on her reverie.
"Mrs Crawley, is everything alright?" Moseley asked, hovering in the doorway, his hair stuck to his scalp, his gown tied haphazardly. "Only I heard a noise and thought we might have intruders."
She turned and forced a smile. So much for peace and privacy she mused. There was something oddly unsettling about him as he stood watching her in his dressing gown, her in her nightgown, gown barely draping her body. He had seen her in the nightclothes before but she had never felt quite so vulnerable. Perhaps it had more to do with the fact he knew about Richard when no one else did.
"Yes, I just wanted a drink," she stated, politeness winning over annoyance, wrapping her arms protectively over her chest as he stared at her. "Please go back to bed."
"Would you like me to make it for you," he offered, taking a step closer until she backed against the sink.
"No, thank you. I'm fine." As his eyes appraised her, she realised that she probably looked anything but.
"Yes, Mrs Crawley." He turned, prepared to leave, if a little reluctantly. Her voice stopped him.
"I won't be going to the hospital tomorrow so don't worry about waking me. I'll take breakfast in the dining room when I wake up." She hoped she sounded confident because even as she said it she wavered, wondering how she could go a day without seeing him.
"Yes, Mrs Crawley."
He finally left her alone in the room, the kettle whistling behind her, giving her a task to momentarily occupy her mind. She would miss the hospital, it had given her a purpose and an outlet since she had moved to Downton and become part of the upper classes. But he would be there, it was his place of work, she couldn't and wouldn't put either of them through that. Instead she would focus on refugees or returning servicemen.
Isobel sat at the table, the steaming hot cup on the waxed surface beside her. As she sat there nursing her cup, her thoughts drifted to other nights; nights when she would stand at the bottom of the stairs and watch him sneak out into the night like a thief when all she wanted was to beg him to stay. Often she would awake to find him already gone, the depression on the white pillowcase the only evidence he had been there at all and she would hug the pillow to her until she drifted back to sleep. There were nights when they would stay up and she would fix them tea and sandwiches in bed and they would laugh and joke even when, or maybe in spite of, the world going to hell around them. She bit back a sob as it threatened to engulf her. There would be no more nights of any kind for them, she was sure of that, even before she heard the door close behind him with a resounding thud. Fresh tears cascaded over her cheeks as she remembered his face as he suggested calmly and quietly that if he couldn't give her what she wanted then maybe it was time to walk away. Possibly she had been too stunned at the time or maybe she hadn't really thought he was serious but he was gone before the reality sunk in.
The tears were flowing freely and she swiped at her eyes, slightly embarrassed at the state she found herself. Even as silence echoed through the house, the fear of Molesley's return or even Mrs Bird finding her in such a way caused her concern. Finally she rose to her feet and tipped the almost full cup down the sink. Daylight would be upon her soon and she needed to at least try and get a little sleep. A few hours might be all that sustained her through the days to come. With a heavy heart she headed back through the house, knowing that she would have to find a way to move on and learn how to conceal the broken heart she would probably nurse for the rest of her life.