**Set immediately after the horrible dinner at Downton with Lord Merton and his sons, Larry and Timothy**

**All characters are owned by Julian Fellows **

"Thank you, Moseley," she said quietly as the first footman closed the car door behind her. She did not dare look to Violet so she chose to look out the window instead. Upon seeing the look of pity of Moseley's face, she wished she had simply looked down rather than to any one direction. She only hoped these reactions to her presence would soon come to an end. They had only just begun….and already, she was sickened by them.

The car started down the drive without a word from either woman in the car. Violet gripped the top of her walking stick, cautiously sneaking a glance over at Isobel. She could not remember the last time Isobel had seemed so deflated…wait, yes she could….when Matthew had died. To see Isobel completely wilt in to herself once more made the Dowager Countess all the more angry at Larry and Timothy Grey.

"Isobel, perhaps you could come to tea tomorrow? I could use your advice on dealing with Spratt and Denker."

Isobel nodded and gripped the edges of her shawl tighter. "Yes, I will let Mrs. Field know. Just ring with the time."

The car slowed in front of Crawley House. Isobel did not wait for the chauffeur to get out of the car before opening the door on her own.

"Allow him to do that!" Violet called out, but Isobel was already out of the car.

Isobel half-turned, still not able to meet the Dowager's concerned gaze, and gave a small smile. "I will see you tomorrow then. Good night."

Violet sighed as the chauffeur closed the car door. "I would call it anything but a good night," she replied to the now empty car.

Isobel quickly made her way to the front door as the car pulled away. She slammed the door shut behind her, feeling as though she were hit by a boulder. An enormous sadness engulfed her, and the only thing keeping her standing was a tight hold on the doorknob.

Turning, she pressed her forehead against the door and her free palm to her lips. But nothing could prevent the large tears that fell from her eyes, nor the pain ripping through her chest as she tried to hold in deep sobs of regret.

Her bedroom was dark, lit only by the fire Mrs. Field had made before she went to sleep for the evening. For a moment, Isobel contemplated giving her cook the day off tomorrow. She figured it might be best…she couldn't imagine eating, nor needing anything throughout the day. And surely she could take care of herself…just as she always had.

It's true, I'm a middle class woman. I should start to cook things on my own. I don't have a Butler…I don't need a cook really.

She moved to her vanity and slowly pulled off her long gloves, folding them neatly and tucking them in the small drawer to the left. As she took off each piece of jewelry, she realized that if she had become Lady Merton, someone would be doing all this for her.

I could never allow that. I would not know what to do with a Lady's Maid. The poor dear would be left with nothing to do but take my clothes down for mending. Though, I do that myself…or can take it to a tailor if need be.

She reached behind her neck and unhooked the few clasps at the top of her dress. With ease, she then slipped her arms out of the top and undid the rest of the buttons so she could step out of the dress. Moving to the closet, she hung the dress and picked out her nightgown and robe. With a sigh, she changed and moved to stoke the fire.

Dickie would surely insist that he take care of the fire when the maids weren't in. Or would he ring for a maid to bring more wood? Would he even come in to my bedroom with another maid present? I wonder how he and Lady Merton lived before. Reginald and I never had separate bedrooms. We dressed in the same room and slept in the same room. But of course, it would surely be different at Cavenham.

She moved to the bed and picked up the latest novel she had been reading. Slipping under the covers, she opened to the next chapter but instead of reading, her mind kept reeling.

Would we have read each night? Or had conversation about the day? Would it have even been a "we" each night? Larry was right…there is too great a disparity between us. It's probably better this way.

Her thoughts continued whirling, and she knew there would be no sense in trying to indulge in her novel. Setting the book aside, she turned down the lamp and settled back against the headboard.

I'm sure I didn't love Dickie. It was just the sense of adventure I loved, wasn't it? Violet thought the marriage was ridiculous. I'm sure many of the others thought so too, though they were kind not to say anything. And how would it have looked for Dickie's friends to hear of him marrying a middle-class widow with no money, children or land to speak of? It would have made him a laughing stock. I could never put him through that.

She sighed and turned over, trying to get somewhat comfortable, though the deep pain in her chest remained. Her eyes dropped on to the picture on the opposite bedside table.

Matthew….my dear, dear Matthew.

A single tear slipped down her cheek as she closed her eyes and willed away all thought of her late son. He would have stood up for her this evening; he would have fought for her against Larry Grey and his rude remarks. Bless Tom and Robert for agreeing with Dickie that Larry leave. But, in the end, Dickie followed both of his sons home…was that a sign that their relationship was finished? She had not given him a true answer….not said if she would still marry him.

I can't….it wouldn't be right. I'm not good enough for him…not good enough to be Lady Merton.

And it was those depressing thoughts that caused a few more tears and lost sleep to befall Isobel Crawley that night.

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