Richard is on his way back to the hospital after a house call to old Mrs. Collins, who is recovering nicely from a broken ankle. It is a beautiful March day, just a touch of spring softening the air and a few isolated spots of emerald hinting at the tides of green that will soon flood the countryside. He breathes in appreciatively and marvels that it can be spring already when Christmas seems to have just finished. Doing a quick mental calculation, he realizes that it has been exactly three months to the day since Isobel returned to working at the hospital. Three months, and their old camaraderie has been almost completely restored. He worried about her at first, her shadowed eyes and the sadness that crept into them when she thought no one was looking, but gradually the shadows disappeared, the pink warmed her cheeks once again, and her old passion for nursing kept her darting around the hospital, making patients laugh, making them comfortable, gently comforting families who had received bad news or simply sitting beside them when that was warranted. They'd engaged in a number of rather spirited disagreements, and while they complicated his life, he was so glad to have her back to herself again that he couldn't wish them away.
As he nears the hospital, he notices a familiar tall thin figure standing by the wall, deep in conversation with a smaller, curvier person clad in a familiar dark blue dress. All the contentment he'd been feeling congeals into a cold knot of anxiety in his stomach. What is Lord Merton doing at his hospital and why is he speaking so intently to Nurse Crawley? He isn't close enough to see their faces well, but as he approaches he sees Lord Merton taking Isobel's hand and kissing it before turning to leave. Unfortunately Lord Merton sees Richard approaching and raises a hand in greeting, so Richard is forced to bring his bicycle to a stop.
"Dr. Clarkson, how good to see you."
"Lord Merton. I hope you're not in need of medical attention?"
Lord Merton chuckles uneasily.
"No, no, nothing like that. I'm only in town for a short visit and I just stopped by to have a bit of a chat with Mrs. Crawley."
"I see."
For some reason, Lord Merton does not seem to want to meet Richard's eyes. He is shifting back and forth uncomfortably on his feet.
"Well, I'd best be off- I'm expected at the Abbey shortly. Hope all's well at the hospital then!"
"Very well. Thank you. Enjoy the rest of your visit."
Lord Merton strides off, moving quickly away from the hospital without a backwards glance. Richard looks to see if Isobel is still outside. She is. She has sunk onto a bench and is sitting quite still, the look on her face inscrutable. Richard crosses over to her.
"Is everything all right, Nurse Crawley?"
She looks up at him, her brown eyes dazed as though she'd just been woken from a sound sleep.
"Lord Merton's just stopped by to let me know he's engaged to Lady Shackleton. They're planning to be married in three weeks.
Richard does not know quite what to say. "I'm sorry" doesn't seem right; certainly "Congratulations" is not it. He is torn between abject relief that Lord Merton was not here to rekindle his romance with Isobel and fury at the man for hurting her. Finally he settles on, "Well, that is a surprise."
One corner of her mouth quirks in a wryly bitter smile. "It certainly is. That does seem like an awfully fast courtship."
"Lady Grantham is an excellent matchmaker, apparently" he observes before thinking better of it, realizing that Lady Grantham certainly would not appreciate any discussion of the motives behind that uncomfortable tea many months ago. He also remembers, too late, who the other pair at that tea was and hopes she will not notice his ill-considered comment.
Fortunately his remark doesn't seem to have registered.
"I suppose Larry will adore her," she murmurs, more to herself than to him. "She does have an impeccable background."
"Would you like to take the rest of the afternoon off?" He offers. She bristles.
"Certainly not, I'm absolutely fine. " She laughs, a mirthless little bark. "It's just a bit of a shock, is all. A slight blow to my vanity, perhaps – one does like to consider oneself irreplaceable."
"You are irreplaceable!"" he says, much more vehemently than he intended. She looks at him, surprised. "At the hospital," he adds, then realizes he's only made it worse. "And as a friend," he finishes lamely.
"Well, thank you. That's very kind of you to say." She forces a smile. "I'd best be getting back then, or Nurse Jenkins will be wondering where I am."
He watches her retreating figure, her shoulders stubbornly squared and head held resolutely high. Richard abhors violence, he's seen far too much of it both at war and in the village, but he suddenly feels that he'd quite enjoy punching Lord Merton right in his handsome face. Even if he would have to be the one to patch him up afterward.
The afternoon passes in the hospital's usual whirlwind of activity. When he sneaks glances at her on the ward she seems to be functioning as usual, smiling, reaching behind a patient's head to fluff a pillow, administering medicine with her characteristic practiced efficiency. However there is a tightness around her mouth that concerns him. The sun is setting and the day nurses have gone home for dinner when he finds her in his office, sitting at the small desk that she has commandeered for her personal use. A chart lies in front of her, but she isn't looking at it. She hasn't bothered to turn on the lights. She is staring at the wall and in the faint gloom he can just make out a tell-tale glitter on her soft cheek. His heart constricts. He wants to touch her, to hold her, at the very least to squeeze her shoulder in comfort, but he doesn't, unsure if the contact would be welcome. With an effort, he keeps his voice cheerful and upbeat.
"Nurse Crawley! I'm glad to see you're still here!"
She startles at his voice."
"Sorry, Doctor, I was woolgathering for a moment. What can I help you with?"
"I was hoping you would consult with me on a patient who's just come in. He's got a rather severe rash all over his body. I think it's likely to be poison ivy, but you had mentioned reading that article on dermamyositis and I thought you might be able to help me rule it out.
She perks up, to his great relief.
"Certainly! Dermamyositis is quite uncommon, but I suppose it's not impossible. Can you describe the rash? Does the patient have any other symptoms? Any muscle weakness?
"Why don't you come see for yourself?" he suggests, ushering her out of the office and down the hall.
He is completely certain that it is indeed poison ivy, as she will no doubt quickly pronounce. His conscience bothers him a bit at the deception, but he salves it by reminding himself that a second opinion never hurt anyone and that the mental health of his best nurse is important enough to justify a slight bending of the truth.