A/N: I began work on this story during the summer months and decided to post it on Tumblr first so that I wouldn't have to pre-identify any of the characters – to help preserve the mystery.

I broke the story up into nine parts to avoid overly-long texts posts and Chelsiefan71's Unofficial Downton Abbey Series 8 turned out to be the perfect venue for presenting it on Tumblr. This is the story in its entirety and I hope you enjoy it!

Thank you CSotA for providing excellent beta services and making the story more readable.

Part I:

Sleet splattered against the windshield and clung to the wipers as the motorcar tried to make its way through the narrow village streets. Skating sideways on a patch of ice, the vehicle narrowly missed the edge of the ditch before coming to a stop. The door opened and a tall slender figure climbed gingerly out onto the slick pavement.

A cold and bitter wind blew. It was the sort that could steal a man's breath away, leaving him frozen and lifeless if he weren't careful. The man buried his chin in his chest in an effort to avert freezing burns as the wind whipped through the collar of his coat. Hat pulled low over his eyes, he squinted into the maelstrom. There were still many miles to be traveled to reach their destination and this storm made it impossible for them to turn back.

An ebb in the whistling of the wind allowed another sound to creep into his consciousness. Turning around, he could just make out the dark shape of the old thatched-roof farmhouse and the large "B and B" lettered on the wooden sign as it creaked back and forth above the door.

Part II:

Placing the cast iron roaster into the oven to season in the remaining heat from cooking the evening meal, she gripped the small of her back and groaned at the clicking sounds as she straightened up. She could hear the howl of the wind as it rattled down the stovepipe.

This was their slow time of year but they did have guests, and she was thankful that her husband had thought to move several cords of firewood onto the back porch. She'd sent him upstairs to stoke the fires and make sure all the bedrooms had a ready supply of kindling and wood while she finished the last of the dishes and banked the downstairs fires for the night.

The electricity had gone out when the snow turned to sleet. The low light given off by candles and small oil lamps made for a cozy setting at dinner but her old eyes were finally failing to focus on the task at hand, and she decided she could finish folding the linens in the morning.

Making her way to the foot of the staircase, she tamped out candle flames along the way. A sudden gust of wind rattled the windows in their panes. She paused a moment listening to several sharp bangs, hoping that none of the shutters had torn loose. It would be hard enough to sleep through this storm without the nuisance of a banging shutter. Convinced her ears were playing tricks on her, she turned back towards the stairs and started when her husband appeared out of the darkness on the landing.

"About scared the life out of me, you did!" she exclaimed, hand to heart.

"Sorry luv," he replied sheepishly. "I heard the banging and came down to see who was at the door."

"I heard the shutters–" She was cut off abruptly by another burst of noise. They both turned to stare at the front door. "Good Lord, who could that be in this weather!"

Part III:

They opened the door to find an elderly couple shivering in the icy wind, the slender man trying his best to protect the woman by his side from the onslaught of the storm.

"Ooh! Come in, come in!" the innkeeper's wife exclaimed, stepping back to allow the couple to enter the small foyer. Taking the smaller case and setting it down next to the desk, she helped her husband close the door against the icy blast that followed them in. "Goodness! What in the world are you doing out on a night like this?"

The innkeeper watched the man shrug out of his coat and exchange a significant glance with his wife.

"We had a reservation to keep and decided to chance the drive. Our car hit a patch of ice and slid off the road not far from here."

"You're lucky you weren't hurt," replied the diminutive innkeeper as he bent to pick up their cases. "If you'll check in there with the missus, I'll take these up and get the fire going to warm up your room."

"Put them in Number Two, Albie." She smiled brightly and turned the heavy ledger around so the couple could sign in.

The woman placed a gentle hand on the man's arm when he looked to her for confirmation. "We can't go back out in this storm," she said, speaking for the first time. "We may as well stay the night if there is accommodation available."

The man raised his eyebrows and nodded in agreement before picking up the pen and beginning to write. The first strokes were confident and bold but the pen paused as he took a trembling breath before finishing his entry with a flourish. He set the pen down with finality and gave a firm nod.

There was something a bit peculiar about the couple but it was late and the innkeeper's wife was too tired to be bothered with it at the moment. Cocking her head slightly to read upside down, she moved around the desk and started for the stairs.

"If you'll follow me, Mr. and Mrs. Mortenson, we'll get you warmed up and tucked in for the night."

Part IV:

There had been a light tap on the door and the innkeeper delivered a tray with a plate of sandwiches and a large pot of tea. Giving a wink and a nod, he also pressed a small flask with "a little something to chase away the chill" into the man's hand. She picked at the sandwiches and frowned at the tea and eventually slipped beneath the mound of quilts and fell asleep.

He sat in the leather armchair pulled close to the fire. The whiskey warmed his insides while the fire thawed his fingers and toes. His eyes flicked briefly to the woman in the bed when she murmured in her sleep and then settled on watching the flames dancing in the stone fireplace. Feeling worn out from the stress of the day, he still found sleep elusive. Instead, he contemplated how it was that he found himself in his current situation.

His wife was a true force to be reckoned with; he couldn't help but be mesmerized by her from the moment they met. She embraced life, welcomed it with open arms. Always busy with her charities or sitting on some committee or another. Rooms sparkled with energy when she arrived, and seemed to dim when she departed.

His first marriage had been an arranged affair. Loveless and cold, they went through the motions but neither felt as though they were living. Each fulfilled their obligations to family and society, conceiving children to inherit and devotion to king and country. A twinge of guilt for the relief he still felt that she succumbed to pneumonia at an early age.

When he met his current wife, everything seemed to thrum with excitement. He actually felt more alive in her presence. The reality of being married to such a woman was an entirely different subject. Just a few short years found him feeling very tired. Tired of the fund-raising, the championing of one cause after another, the last straw was the political rallies.

He should have known, should have expected it. He chose to turn a blind eye. Searching his heart, he knew they had very different expectations for their marriage. He expected they would settle into the house and lead a simple life. He expected he would be asked to donate to the local charities, arrange tables or chairs for a village fete perhaps. But this…this was not at all what he expected.

In his first marriage it had been easy. The occasional dalliance when traveling abroad; longer affairs when they were closer to home. Nothing untoward mind you, but they both entertained lovers off and on. Neither of them cared.

He loved his wife, but life with her was difficult. He attended the balls and the fund raisers and the rallies, all the while cultivating a connection to…her. At first it was shared duties, shared sympathies that turned into something more. Hers was the quiet sensible voice in the midst of the chaos, the understanding ear when his wife was too busy to listen. She became his safe harbor when life came crashing down on him.

And now the storm had come crashing down on them both. Taking a deep breath, he rose from the chair to put another log on the fire before sliding beneath the covers. He tried to be gentle but the woman roused from sleep, turned towards him and settled in against his side. He wrapped one arm around to hold her close and kissed the top of her head before closing his eyes. Morning would be here soon enough and they would face whatever arrived with it, together.

Part V:

He woke first to find bright sunlight filling the room. He was sitting on the side of the bed tying his shoelaces when she first roused.

"The innkeeper knocked a bit ago to say that breakfast would be ready soon. Would you like a tray sent up?" He rubbed the back of his fingers along her cheek with an affectionate smile.

It boggled her mind how he could be so at ease given their current demise. Turning away with a stretch, she shook her head and sat up. "No, I'll dress and come down shortly. The sooner we're ready, the sooner we can leave."

He frowned slightly as he rose to slip on his jacket. Though she was not a very effusive person, preferring to keep herself to herself when they were traveling together, she was not usually quite this taciturn. Given that they were on the outskirts of the village where they lived, perhaps she was right to be cautious.

Still, they were at the mercy of the weather last night and hadn't much choice. Looking back over his shoulder, he caught her deep sigh as she stared into the depths of her suitcase just before he closed the door.

Part VI:

"Good morning, Mrs. Mortenson," Beryl said brightly, setting down one of her finest china plates upon which she had carefully arranged eggs with a rasher of bacon, fried mushrooms and a bit of black pudding.

For a reason she couldn't quite put her finger on, she was certain that the dour looking woman was used to much finer fare and would like as not pick at the food and push it around the plate. Returning twenty minutes later to refresh their teapot, she was surprised to find the woman had finished every morsel.

Reaching for the empty plate, Beryl filled the silence, "I would like to have served fried tomatoes, but the green grocer's not had any in for a couple of weeks now."

"Not at all, Mrs. Mason," the woman said with a small but understanding smile. "It's the time of year. Breakfast was delicious, but we really should be getting on our way."

"Not sure that'll be possible," came a thick Yorkshire accent. "It must have snowed the better part of the night; it's waist deep out there in places."

They'd all heard the stamping of boots at the backdoor in the kitchen and turned to see the innkeeper carrying a bucket of coal which he set on the hearth next to the basket of logs.

"I know you like a wood fire when we have guests, luv, but the coal will burn longer down here. I'll take wood up for the bedrooms," he said soothingly in response to his wife's questioning frown.

Speaking over his shoulder as he knelt to place a few pieces of coal into the fire, "A couple of the local farmers usually yoke up their oxen to help clear the roads after a good snow. They should be along soon and we can get a couple of their lads to help dig out your motorcar, Mr. Mortenson."

"Oh, I'll pay them of course, and then we can be on our way," the man replied with relief.

Albert shook his head with a rueful smile. "The road in front of the farmhouse will be cleared but the last time it snowed like this, it took all of one day and half the next before the village roads were clear."

"I see," said the man absentmindedly as he turned his attention back to the table in front of him, watching dejectedly as his wife prepared a second cup of tea.

"Darling, if the roads truly aren't passable, we'll just have to stay another night."

"If you say so, my dear."

Part VII:

She had settled herself into one corner of the sofa where the afternoon sun shone in through the window to cast its bright light over her shoulder and onto the embroidery hoop she was using to occupy her time. She heard the front door open and the sounds of two men talking and stamping the snow from their feet. She smiled at the shrill sound of Mrs. Mason shooing the two off of her clean floors and back out onto the porch to remove their boots before entering the farmhouse.

"Ah, there you are, my dear," he said leaning down to kiss her cheek.

"My word! Your nose is like an icicle!"

"Fingers are as well," he replied with a laugh and settled at the other end of the sofa where he held his hands and feet out to soak in the warmth radiating from the fireplace. "We were able to get the car free, and the motor started without too much trouble."

The innkeeper's wife appeared with a tray bearing a large pot of tea, two cups, and a small plate of sandwiches. "Dinner will be ready soon; hopefully this will tide you over. I put a bit of brandy in your cup to chase away the chill," she said with a wink.

"Thank you, much appreciated," he murmured gratefully, downing the brandy before she poured the tea.

"My Albie tells me the roads should be clear by tomorrow afternoon."

Taking a sip of his tea and enjoying the heat warming him from the inside, he swallowed quickly and turned to his wife. "Yes, I was just going to say, I think we can venture out after lunch tomorrow, if you like." The woman nodded her agreement and returned her attention to her embroidery hoop.

"Well I'd best get back to the kitchen; the chicken won't cook itself!"

Heading towards the kitchen she gave a slight nod towards the woman on the sofa and rolled her eyes as she passed her husband in the doorway. He chuckled and continued into the room holding a bottle of brandy in one hand and a small wooden board in the other.

"Do you play cribbage, Mr. Mortenson?"

Part VIII:

And so began a friendship of sorts. Beryl found she could almost set her clock by them. The third Thursday of every month, the Mortensons would arrive in time for supper, stay over two nights and check out on Saturday mornings after a hearty breakfast. When the weather warmed, the couple took long walks into the countryside, never straying too close to the village. Evenings would find them in the parlor, Mrs. Mortenson with embroidery hoop or book in hand and Mr. Mortenson with his head bent over counting out the matchsticks he would inevitably lose to Albert Mason over a game of cribbage.

Beryl wondered aloud to her husband one night as they were getting ready for bed about why the couple would continue to stay at their small B and B when they could so obviously afford more luxurious accommodation. He speculated that they just wanted a quiet few days away from the hullabaloo of running an estate. She figured he was probably right, as he was with most things. Her husband had an uncanny knack for reading people and understanding their motives, and she was too tired to lose sleep over it.

It was at the end of one such visit in early summer that Beryl was clearing the breakfast dishes when the bell over the front door rang.

"Ooh, that'll be the women from the church come to collect the jams I made for the bazaar," she exclaimed as she dithered in front of the couple seated at the table.

"Let me have those," tutted her husband taking the plates from her. "You go on out front and get the Mortensons checked out. Send the ladies 'round the back of the house and I'll load the jams for them."

"I'll have your bill ready in two shakes!" she said cheerfully, giving her husband a grateful smile and turning towards the dining room door. She spied Elsie Carson standing at the front desk with another woman and called out, "Mornin' Elsie, Albie says to go 'round the back and he'll load the jams for you."

Bustling around the end of the front desk, she finally focused on the tall woman with the dark blonde hair standing next to Elsie. "Oh my, Lady Merton, I wasn't expecting you," she acknowledged quietly.

"Not to worry, Mrs. Mason," Isobel Gray said gaily. "I'm helping Cousin Cora organize the bazaar this year and heard that Mrs. Carson was coming out from the village to collect the jams today. Dickie, Lord Merton," she corrected herself, "is off visiting his sons until Sunday evening so I offered the use of my motorcar."

The woman emerging from the dining room stood stock still as she recognized both the voice and the figure of the woman speaking to Mrs. Mason.

Catching the motion from the corner of her eye, Isobel turned to look at the woman frozen in the doorway. "Prudence?"

"This is Mrs. Mortenson. She and her husband are one of our regulars," said Beryl by way of introduction.

Elsie's jawed dropped when she heard the name her friend used for the woman she knew to be Lady Shackleton. She covered her mouth with a gloved hand when she saw the tall man coming out of the dining room and nudging the woman forward with one hand at the small of her back.

"I'll go up and get our bags, shall I?" he queried before turning to look at the women standing at the front desk. He could feel the bottom drop out of his stomach when he recognized the two new faces.

"Dickie…" Isobel's voice was a shaky whisper as she stared into her husband's eyes.

"Isobel, I can expl…" He was cut off when she closed her eyes and raised her hand to silence him.

Without moving or opening her eyes she said in measured tones, "Would you please ask Mr. Mason to put the jams in the motorcar and we will be on our way, Mrs. Mason?"

"Right away," replied Beryl quickly, looking to Elsie for confirmation of what had just dawned on her. Elsie grimaced and gave her a small nod.

"I'll wait for you in the car, Mrs. Carson," Isobel said stiffly as she hurried out of the house.

Part IX:

Dr. Clarkson stood in the door of the surgery watching her move supplies from one shelf to another, one cabinet to another. It was obvious that she was trying to come to terms with something as she took it in turns to pause and weep one moment, and angrily mutter to herself the next.

"You ran by the door so fast, I wasn't sure it was you." He continued to speak to her back when she froze at the sound of his voice. "I thought you were busy at the Abbey this weekend and wouldn't be in until Tuesday."

Without turning to look at him, she began to rearrange the surgical instruments on the shelf in front her. "Plans change," she said shortly and then took a deep breath. "I'm sorry; you're right. I should have at least stopped to let you know I was here."

"Mmm," he murmured in agreement. "I saw Mrs. Carson in the hallway. She told me what happened." He saw her back stiffen and her movements became more pronounced.

"I suppose it will be all over the village soon!" she exclaimed indignantly as she set a glass beaker down on the counter a bit harder than she meant to and it shattered across the back of her hand. She stared blankly as small beads of red began to form.

He moved quietly to her side so as not to startle her and took her trembling hand in his. Keeping his voice light, he reached for some gauze and a bandage to tend the wound.

"You and I both know that Elsie Carson has guarded more secrets from that Abbey than either of us could know in our lifetimes."

She raised her chin with a watery smile, trying to keep her tears at bay. "I suppose you think I'm a fool."

"For what?" he asked quietly, tucking the ends of the bandage in.

Swallowing around the lump in her throat, she responded hoarsely, "For not knowing…not realizing…"

He ducked his head to catch her eyes when she turned away. Squeezing her hand gently, he said, "I could never think a friend foolish." It broke his heart to see the tears form and her lip begin to quiver, the mask falling away to reveal the raw emotion beneath. "Once upon a time, you called me friend. Will you not allow me to be that friend now?"

His arms slipped around her shuddering shoulders as her head came to rest in the crook of his neck. They stayed like that long after the tears subsided. Two friends, comforting and being comforted. In that moment, it was enough.

The End