A/N: Welcome to the latest installment of my modern Richobel retirement AU. As we pick up, they have left London behind for the North Yorkshire countryside. Pictures of the house and of their updates to it have been posted to the espoirmerveilleux blog on Tumblr.

We're jumping straightaway into schmaltz and M-ness here. Don't expect much in the way of angst in this fic. They've had more than their fair share of that already. As for what you should expect, there's a Tumblr post I've seen a bunch of times that goes like this:

Producers: Relationships need drama! If couples are just happy all the time the audience will get bored!

Me: I would literally watch these two idiots do laundry and make toast and be domestic and smiley for the rest of my trash life.

I'm not saying it's going to be all unicorns and rainbows, but I think you get my point. ;)

The title of this piece will be reflective of its aim, but I can't take credit for it. "Sweet Seasons" is a song by Carole King, and this bit of lyric: "And I'll watch the seasons runnin' away/And I'll build me a life in the open/A life in the country" is exactly what Richard and Isobel are doing.

And because it's me, and nearly every song in my meticulously curated music library makes me think of something I'd like to convey in fic, there are lyrics interspersed (sparingly) in the text of this chapter. I am a huge fan of the Anglo-American rock band Fleetwood Mac and of the projects of its various members over the years. Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks, the California contingent, recorded as Buckingham-Nicks before they joined Fleetwood Mac. They wrote a song together called "Without You," with which I was surprisingly unfamiliar until recently. Now that I recognize it as a "Richobel song," I can't stop listening. Go and find the demo on YouTube if you have a chance. It's sweet.

There will be special appearances by some other well-loved Downton characters in this fic beginning with the next chapter. I do hope you enjoy, and if you can spare a moment to let me know your thoughts I would be most grateful!

xx,
~ejb~

Mid-May, 2016

The sun is already high in the sky when he wakes. He picks up his phone off the nightstand beside him and glances at the time: 8:45. He sets it back down, stretching, and rolls toward his wife. He has to laugh at the way she sleeps. He doubts that she's done it intentionally, but the covers are thrown back, leaving her bare to the hips as she lies on her stomach. When he touches her arm to ascertain whether she's cold and finds her skin wonderfully warm, he leaves the covers off so that he can admire her.

They don't bother with pajamas anymore. Even on the nights they don't make love they lie together now, skin on skin. Their dressing gowns are on hand in the event MacTavish needs let out, but now they can simply open the door and let him go. Gone are the days of getting fully kitted out for the dog's midnight wee.

Since they've been up here she has spent the fair-weather days in the garden, beating the hedges into submission and reading her roses the riot act before they come into bloom for the season. She is brown as a berry for her efforts, even with the sun cream he makes her use, and he marvels at this; he's only ever burnt to a crisp, even when he jumps in the bottle and turns round.

On days when it's rained, she has been hard at it redecorating their bedroom. The house needs nothing in the way of major updates, leaving them free to focus on giving it their own stamp. It's a gift she has, a knack for picking up this lamp from a bring-and-buy sale and combining it with that throw pillow she nabbed at West Elm before they left the city. The result is a bright and airy master suite, all white linens and brilliant, unfiltered light. It's a haven for them, a retreat within a retreat.

He has watched her blossom in the couple of weeks since leaving the city. She appears, at long last, to be shedding her inhibitions. There was little they hadn't done together physically before the move; not a day that had passed that he hadn't told (and shown) her how beautiful she was, and yet she had always been just a little ill-at-ease, a touch disbelieving.

Those days are behind them now. And how.

She is exquisite, he muses. The years have been kind to her body despite all the heartache she has known. Even her hair has been kissed by the sun, as more streaks of honeyed blonde have begun to emerge than he's ever seen before. As he runs his fingers through it, she sighs in her sleep.

There are secrets he's only just beginning to discover in the lovely morning light.

Her shoulders are sprinkled generously with freckles, and he thinks of each one as a kiss from the sunshine that she loves so much. He reckons himself a right soppy old sod for having such romantic notions about her, but it really is as if all the warmth he always knew her to possess is coming into its own now, no longer capable of being contained.

He plays a game of connect-the-dots with a particular smattering of freckles dotting her left shoulder blade and it occurs to him that they form the shape of a rose. He grins at this discovery, knowing it will please her as her roses are a source of pride and a labour of love.

As the tip of his tongue is following the path mapped out by his fingers, she begins to stir. He is transfixed by the roll of her hips as she stretches, and he wonders how he survived so many years of his life without waking up beside her.

Pillowing her head on her forearms, she blinks at him with a sleepy smile. "You really should see someone about that," she tells him. While her voice enchants him all of the time, it possesses a particularly rich, husky timbre when she first awakens, and of all the sounds he's heard over the course of a lifetime this one just might be his favourite.

"How's that?" he asks, leaning in to steal a kiss before she can reply.

"Your obsession with my body," she manages breathlessly.

"Ah, but I am doing. Perhaps you know of her … she's a brilliant doctor. Lovely golden skin, legs a mile long, takes no prisoners. Any of this ringing a bell?"

She giggles, rolling toward him and propping herself up on her elbow. "Oh, I see. Well then, has she cured your condition, or made it worse?"

He chuckles, reaching out to trace the contours of her collarbones. "Both. Simultaneously. You see, just when I think I know all there is to know about her, I find something new and altogether fascinating."

"Please," she snorts, "fascinating?"

"Well, yeah," he answers, feigning insult. "Do you know, she has constellations written on her body."

She gapes at him, incredulous. "Oh, now you're just having me on."

"Sorry; no. Sit up," he directs, and when she does he moves behind her, quickly locating and mapping out the formation in question.

"So that's what you were up to." She lets her head fall forward and closes her eyes at his touch.

"Mmm," he affirms. "And 'I call her rose of heaven, for I've longed to love her so.'"*

"Is it?" she asks excitedly.

"Aye." Reading the invitation in her posture, he begins to massage her neck and shoulders.

"Oh, that's lovely! You know, before us I'd never have figured you for such an old romantic." Turning over her shoulder she adds, "Don't ever stop, will you? It's marvellous."

He smooths his hands over her arms. "Duly noted. Now, what's your pleasure this morning, love?" A thrill runs up and down her spine. Oh, but he has a way with words!

"Goodness," she says in response to both her body's reaction to his question and the words themselves. "Lie with me? And forget the covers."

The time had come and gone without you
Inside me
Love to be written about you

She watches him as he lies down beside her, captivated by the movement of his body. If time has been generous to her, it's been kinder still to him. He works for his physique, but closer to the truth is that he's been blessed with a naturally beautiful form. She cannot resist touching him, smoothing her hand over his flank as his legs tangle with hers. His warm palm moves up her thigh to her bum, resting there.

"I love being here," she half-whispers, reaching up to kiss him.

"I can tell. I don't think you've stopped smiling in three weeks." He bends his head to kiss her shoulder.

"No," she clarifies, "well, I mean yes, I'm thrilled to be up here now. But I meant that I love being here, with you, in this bed. In your arms. I'm—" She meets his eyes. "I'm home."

He wraps her up in his embrace, pulling her tight against him, and she settles with her head resting on his shoulder. He can count on one hand the number of times in sixty-one years of life that he has been moved to tears, and more than half of them have been at her hands.

He can't speak except to whisper her name, shaking his head in wonder.

She feels him warm all around her and kisses him - the line of his jaw, his neck and the base of his throat. Runs her hands the length of his back, over his buttocks. She has been existing all these years: working, healing, mothering when the privilege was still hers, but it has been a very, very long time since she has felt so intimately connected to someone she loves, someone who loves her. To her husband.

"This is life,"** she murmurs, thinking aloud.

"Aye, that it is," he agrees, gently trailing his fingertips across her belly.

She giggles, realising her admission. "Are you as happy as I am?" She maneuvers him to lie on his back and stretches her body along the length of his, propping her elbows on his chest and resting her chin on her hands.

He smirks, leaning up to nip at her chin. "Are you kidding me? No more 3 am callouts; no dossing down in the doctors' lounge, the two of us passing like ships in the night. Now it's open space and fresh air, nothing pressing but the demands of the moment and whatever I decide to put my hand to.*** I've been feeling the pull for at least five years now."

This is news to her. "Have you done? I had absolutely no inkling until you mentioned it to me last spring. What took you so long, then?"

He parts his legs, bringing their bodies flush, his hands gliding over her back and hips. "I reckon it was the vain hope that perhaps you'd want to join me." He ducks his head as he says it, momentarily vulnerable.

She catches his face in her hands. "Richard, don't," she whispers. "Don't. We were the best of friends. Even if that's all we'd ever been I'd have wanted it for you. And I loved you then, but you know that."

He nods, drawing her down to kiss her. "It's no matter anyhow. We're here now, and better for letting it happen in its own time." He drops his head into the crook of her neck, resting his lips against her pulse point.

When she speaks he feels it even more than he hears it.

"Sweeter for the waiting. Isn't that what it's all about?"

"It is that," he agrees, rolling her onto her back. For more than a decade now he has longed to see her the way he knew she was meant to be: thriving; fulfilled. That his love has aided her in reaching such satisfaction is icing on the proverbial cake.

"What?" she whispers, having caught him staring at her.

Shrugging, he lays a trail of kisses between her breasts and over her heart. "Happy is a good look on you. Bewitching, even. If only you knew …" He pauses to watch her, thinking he could make a lifelong study of her facial expressions alone. At the same time she regards him as he gathers his thoughts, musing that his eyes are a barometer for all that he feels.

After some moments he continues, "You know, I pray every day that this is just the start and we've still got years left to us - because my God, girl, I had to wait fifty-nine bloody years to love you. But if my time ran out today I'd die a happy man. All I've ever wanted is to see you like this."

She grasps at his shoulders, pulling him up to her mouth. The kiss begins sweetly as she pours into it all the emotion for which she doesn't have words, but soon she is biting at his bottom lip and his tongue is sweeping across hers. His hands trail from her face, tracing over her throat and her chest until he fills his palms with the soft warmth of her breasts.

When the kiss breaks she is smiling beautifully, a low, sultry laugh emitting from her lips. "I don't think I can talk much more if you keep that up, sweetheart."

He leans away from her, a glint in his eyes. "Shall I stop then?"

She takes his face in her hands again, the look in her eyes deadly serious even as tiny smile lines crinkle around their corners. "We can talk laterrr," she purrs, stretching long against his body.

"That's what I thought," he laughs. "Beautiful girl. Turn over, eh?"

Reaching to kiss him one more time, she nuzzles his nose with her own. "Oh, yes," she answers, turning to lie on her side. Every inch of her skin feels electrified as she waits for him to wrap his arms around her.

"Richard," she sighs, pushing back against him. "I feel so good like this. So safe and loved and desired."

"And you are," he whispers, his breath hot against her ear. The only sounds in the room are their murmured endearments and breathy moans as their hips roll together, as he rolls her nipples in his palms. She lifts her leg to rest on his and touches between his legs, bringing his excitement to rest against her folds. He growls in response and she laughs joyously.

She feels him twitch against her, hardening, and there is a gush of warmth between her legs. She throbs, rushing suddenly and quickly toward an unexpected peak.

"Richard," she pants, "you know how sometimes I can … when you've not even touched me yet?"

"Already?" he exclaims.

She manages to look at him over her shoulder, nodding, wide-eyed. "Oh, yeah."

"Baby." It slips out, spoken reverently and with astonishment, this endearment that only rarely emerges in moments like this. She gasps when she hears it, the walls of her sex clenching hard. "What do you need me to do?"

"Just …" more panting, the words coming with great difficulty, "... more. Like that …" He alternates kneading the flesh of her breasts and caressing her nipples and she keens, pressing her palm against her forehead. "Oh, darling … my God … Richard …YES!"

The contractions of her sex draw the tip of him inside her, and he cants his hips forward until he is fully sheathed in her heat. She is already breathless, and a heaving gasp is torn from her chest at the feel of him filling her. He holds her through her climax, peppering her back and shoulders with kisses. She can't decide whether she's still coming or coming again but she can feel him more acutely than she's ever done and he's not even moving yet; he's just riding it out with her and it's so intense and beautiful that tears spill from her eyes.

"I'm not crying, I'm not crying," she tells him, looking over her shoulder at him as teardrops land on his arm. Grinning, he raises an eyebrow at her. "I mean, I am, but …" She laughs, and then so does he, and she palms his cheek as he kisses her forehead. "My heart is so full."

He begins to move slowly, speaking softly to her, his arm across her breasts. "This is all I ever wanted … to be this close to you. All of life seems like a prelude to being here with you now, Isobel."

The sound she makes is halfway between a laugh and a sigh and she pushes back hard against him, holding his hip. "That's impressively eloquent considering our current state, sweetheart."

"Yeah, well … don't expect that to last, with you moving like you are," he chuckles. The tip of his tongue traces the shell of her ear.

"Ohh," she whispers, shivering. "I'm up for more now, if you're ready. How can it be like this, hmm? Better every time."

"I find it best not to question these matters, beauty. Good things come to those who wait." He sucks in a breath when she reaches down to touch him where he moves in and out of her. "And that's me done talking."

She laughs, low and throaty, and throws his words back at him. "Shall I stop then?"

"Don't you dare," he rumbles, moving a hand to her hip.

"Oh, I love you." She smiles and he can hear it in her voice, and he's about to answer when she cups him from beneath, scratching lightly with her fingernails.

"Jesus, woman!" he shouts. He pushes gently at her shoulders and she rolls halfway onto her stomach, welcoming his weight on top of her. She can't touch him in this position but oh! can she feel him. He finds her hands and links their fingers, holding hers against the mattress. She feels entirely at his mercy; she can do nothing to make it good for him like this. But from the sounds of it she has nothing to worry about.

He is in her, inside his wife, and she feels like home to him. She is all the good in life, all together at once, and it's everything to him that she is happy now, whole and free. She is softness and warmth and lusty cries that heighten his need of her, and he moves harder, faster, chanting her name and 'I love you' and lovely unintelligible syllables that her heart treasures.

Isobel, my heart, love of my life, it's you; it's you. Only you for me, always. Strong and so beautiful; my beauty, I want you, I need you. All I want is your joy.

"Richard," she cries, "don't hold back. Take all you need. You feel so good!"

With her blessing he hastens toward his own end, holding her hips so hard his knuckles blanch. She squeezes her inner muscles down on him and he pours himself into her, shuddering his release as she murmurs soothingly of her love for him.

She would hold him within her forever if she could, but his shoulders tremble with the effort of holding himself up and she watches with a smile as he flops down on his stomach with his head pillowed on his forearms, thinking he looks like she must have done when he woke her. She curls into him, lying on her side, and presses soft kisses to his bicep, running her fingers through his hair.

Strange are the ways
Of a very complicated world
And there you are

He is first to speak afterward, sounding as if he's had the wind knocked out of him. "When I said that if my time ran out today I'd die a happy man, I didn't know I was speaking prophetically."

Giggling, she kisses his lips. "I think it's safe to conclude that retirement agrees with us. I'm not sure I could walk at the moment if I tried, but then moving is highly overrated."

"No one would know if we had a little nap," he says conspiratorially. "Lad's been out and I could leave it till later for breakfast if you could."

"Mmm," she purrs, nodding. "What a smashing idea. Can I hold you?"

"I won't hurt you?" His eyes hold both the sated glaze of post-coital bliss and the deep indigo of concern and her heart swells with love.

"Never," she assures him, propping pillows against the headboard. She sinks back into them and holds her arms out to him. "Come here, darling."

He curls himself into her and pulls the covers over them, tangling his legs with hers and laying his head on her chest. He kisses her there, stroking her breast, rubbing the nipple.

"You know how I love that, but you're done in," she whispers, kissing his forehead.

He looks up at her. "I want to take you out later."

"Yes, later. Sleep now, my love."

She listens as his breathing pattern slows, his head heavy against her breast as he slips into slumber. She follows him in short order, drifting to sleep with a smile on her lips.

If I never knew the likes of you
Where would I be without you?

The air in the room is hot when she wakes, and he is no longer lying in her arms. Stretching out her hand, she makes contact with his shoulder and he moves closer.

"Hello, beauty."

"Mmm," she mumbles, her eyes still closed. "'Time's it?"

He chuckles. "Quarter past eleven. I come bearing coffee."

She brightens at this, sitting up against the headboard. The sheet falls to her waist and she reaches to cover herself, arrested by his hand on her wrist.

"Leave it," he requests. "Please."

"Honestly! Haven't you had your fill?" She blushes prettily but drops the sheet.

"Not even possible," he answers, pressing a steaming cup of coffee into her hands.

She takes a sip, closing her eyes as she savours the taste. "This is excellent." She looks at him, the corners of her eyes crinkling as she teases him. "I knew there was a reason I kept you around."

"And here I was thinking it was my charming social graces," he quips, and she chokes on her coffee.

"Dammit, Richard, don't do that to me!" She can't stop herself, nor can she catch her breath for a good few minutes. Her laughter is contagious and soon they both have tears streaming down their cheeks.

"Oh, my God," she says when she recovers. "That was good. Charming you are. You've got that in spades, at least with me and that's all that counts. But sociable … not so much. And you know something? That is absolutely fine by me. I suppose I'm getting old, but I find I've less interest in putting on the face as time goes by."

"Not old," he tells her. "Selective. There's a difference. But that isn't what I wanted to say."

"Isn't it?"

"No. Seeing as we're effectively honeymooning, I wondered if we might take a trip to the seaside."

Her eyes widen excitedly. "Where?"

"Scarborough. The weather's good for it, and half-term isn't until end of month so we'd miss the crowds. Himself can tag along, and we could stop tonight if we were inclined."

"Scarborough! Do you know, I've not been in … going on twenty years. Brilliant idea, love!"

"Right, so I'll fix a late breakfast whilst you have a bath and as soon as we've eaten we can be off."

"It's a pity you're already dressed," she teases, taking a moment to appreciate the sight of him in an oxford shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows, and khaki trousers. Blue is his colour, she decided that long ago.

"Darling, if we showered together we'd never leave this bedroom." He leans in for a kiss.

She returns it, humming her agreement. "Truer words were never spoken."

*"The Rose of No Man's Land," Jack Caddigan & James Alexander Brennan, 1918 - a tribute to the Red Cross nurses on the front lines of WWI

**Credit to Alan Bennett; in his Talking Heads 2: Nights in the Gardens of Spain, Dame Penelope's character, Rosemary Horrocks, utters this line (complete with heartbreaking facial expressions)

***James Taylor, "Montana:" "Enough for today, the demands of the moment/The thing on my mind is the work of my hands"