A./N.: I wasn't very happy with the sickness story of Lord Merton and how Isobel just happens to change her opinion on marrying him. Lord Merton is handled by his son and daughter-in-law and not actively fighting for Isobel. Their romance, the meaningful stuff, gets lost in the other storylines. So I shamelessly changed everything around until it pleased me. Isobel made it clear that the ball was in Larry's and Dickie's court and I made them play instead of making Isobel do all the heavy lifting.
None of the characters are mine and I don't make any money with writing this.
There's No Fool Like an Old Fool
The brown depths of her eyes glittered with the threat of tears which needed to spill. Her cheeks were pink with frustration at the inability to release them and she was at her wit's end. Rubbing her restless, empty palms across her dry eyes, she tried to get the phantom pain to release itself, but she knew better, it wasn't anything physical, but mental - emotional really. Pain rose in her chest, mixed with that horrible, chest-squeezing need to release her tears, fears, anger, frustration, happiness, every single emotion that swirled inside of her. It had been an achingly long few years since her darling son had been taken from her. The pain over his loss hadn't diminished in the least, and today on her grandson's birthday, as every year, the pain was as raw as it had been the moment Dr. Clarkson had informed her of the accident. Since then many days had passed by with such ups and downs that her mental and emotional state was at its most fragile. Glass couldn't compare to the fragility, it was more like spun sugar.
Hours passed as she sat curled up in the corner of the sofa, hugging her knees to her chest, the crying just at the brink within her grasp, but no matter what she said to herself, thought about, or did, she simply couldn't cry. No amount of tears would do her grief justice and it seemed that it was this knowledge that kept her tears from spilling down her cheeks. The dam was refusing to break and it just taunted her by letting only two lonely tears fall. She screamed with frustration, over and over into a throw pillow until she felt exhausted. It wasn't what she needed, but it was a release of sorts to tide her over.
She was mentally and physically exhausted by her struggle and all her willpower was required to keep breathing, to keep even semi-upright. Her struggle blinded her to the world outside her own mind.
oOoOoOo
Hours passed that she spent in this catatonic state, not hearing a car pull into the driveway, or the doorbell being rung, nor the clicking of the door, and she did not hear a male voice calling out to her. Worried footsteps clattered into the room as a result of finding her curled up in a small ball, tightly hugging a pillow and unresponsive. With a creasing frown to his forehead he approached her, reaching a hand out to rub along her back. It was damp with sweat, maybe from her waking nightmare or being too hot in a stifling room. Lord Merton just wrapped his arms under her, lifting her up, and shifted till she was curled up in his arms instead of the sofa, head resting against his broad chest. Pressing adoring kisses to her temple, he inhaled the sweet scent of green apples in her hair from that shampoo she rarely used. It was a switch from the normal lavender and he was pleasantly surprised, but he also knew what that meant. She never switched shampoos, never changed the heady scent of lavender on her body and in her hair unless she was collapsing.
Anguish filled his belly at the thought that this darling, compassionate woman was hurting and so deeply. It had taken her so much courage to try to explain to him so many months ago about her feelings of alienation, of loneliness. He had known that, eventually, the damn inside would break. Whether she needed to scream, cry, laugh – it would mean that she would have to release her tightly-held-under-control emotions. The only question was if it would break her completely or deliver her from that void Matthew's death had left behind.
"Isobel, it's me, Dickie," he tried to stir her. "I've come to take you away from here – today of all days …"
Fingers brushed the honey-coloured strands of her hair away from her soft skin, and slowly she began to stir. Instead of the energetic, optimistic woman he knew and loved, the one who she tried to project to the world around her, she was lethargic, barely aware and not herself. Instead of warmth in her eyes, there was nothing but pain and distance. Even her voice, when she spoke, sounded dull and broken, "Oh Dickie, you're here …"
His heart broke, cracking right in half at the sight. Anger flared for a moment inside his constricted chest; why hadn't she told him just how acutely she still felt Matthew's death? Why didn't she tell him how much she was hurting? Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and shook his head. She had a hard time telling him these things about herself, and he knew that and had always extended patience to her. He pushed his nose to hers and rubbed softly, and his fingers stroked her lower back in soothing circles.
"Not feeling yourself, I see. Did you eat today?" he stated, trying for some normalcy to tide her over her grief-stricken state. His eyes lingered over the bed, noticing a cup of tea and an untouched tray. She shrugged, neither confirming nor denying, just ... there.