Richard and Isobel had gone to dinner, cherishing the way the family made much of the wedding and the fact that most of the conversation revolved around them. It was comfortable for neither to be the center of attention but as the atmosphere was so full of love and encouragement they endured it with all grace. Isobel spent much of the time with George in her arms, settling down on the settee in the drawing room after dinner with him snuggled against her chest and Richard next to her, her hand clasped in his. When the evening was winding down and it was time for Richard to go home and Isobel upstairs to bed, they stood in the foyer and held each other as close and as long as propriety allowed, making concessions because in mere hours they would no longer need to trouble themselves about such things.

She looked up at him and two fat teardrops slid down her cheeks. He caught them with a brush of his thumb which he then brought to his lips, effectively kissing them away.

"I already miss you," she whispered, her voice having broken. "I feel like I'm nineteen again. This is silly."

He held her close with an arm around her waist and gently swayed with her, soothing her. "Shhh. Silly is the last thing you are, my beauty. But no more tears, all right? My love will be with you always, and I will see you in just a few short hours."

"I know," she whispered. "And I'm never letting you go again. If that sounds desperate then I suppose that's what I am." She held onto his lapels and let herself get lost in his eyes for a moment.

"Does it matter how it sounds if it works for us?" Richard traced Isobel's cheekbone with his thumb before sweeping it across her bottom lip. She pressed a lingering kiss there, looking up at him from beneath her long lashes. The frisson that passed between them was palpable and they shared a long, smoldering look.

"Richard?" she said so softly he almost missed it, except that he was watching her beautiful mouth.

"Yes, Isobel?"

"Kiss me? So that I can feel it until I see you again?" She chanced openly voicing her desire for him because the wedding was so close at hand.

"Step outside with me so we can be certain we're alone," he said, his voice thick with longing. He removed his overcoat, wrapping it around her shoulders as he ushered her outside with a hand at the small of her back.

It was a moment Isobel would remember forever. It was just barely snowing and so cold that it made her gasp. He brought them to stand so that her back was toward the house, sheltering her from the elements as much as possible.

Richard had refused to allow Isobel to see the extent of his hunger for her, but now she looked into his eyes and saw it plainly. She was astonished, speechless. A delightful shiver ran up her spine.

"Come here," he said, and her knees went weak at the sound. She stepped up to him, never breaking his gaze. "Put your hands on me, Isobel." She did as he asked, sliding her palms against his abdomen between his waistcoat and shirt. It baffled her that he could be so warm in spite of the cold. She felt his heart beating under her fingertips and found it incredibly provocative.

Richard's arms came around her, but instead of holding her loosely at the waist he settled his hands on her hips, pressing her body against his. She closed her eyes, committing to memory the feel of him, of them together. He watched her this way for a long moment, himself keeping forever the image of her in this instant, before swiftly taking her lips. She cried out and his mouth captured the sound. His lips parted hers, his tongue teased. She let hers sweep across his lower lip and her body relaxed into his. She nipped at his lips, then soothed the sting with her tongue. She memorized the taste of him, of single-malt scotch and dark chocolate and something rich and unidentifiable that was simply Richard.

When they parted, Richard pulled Isobel's hips tighter against him for an instant. A sound that was somewhere between a gasp and a sob issued from her lips at the long-awaited contact and she pressed them to his shoulder. "How I love you, my bride," he whispered hotly.

"Richard, I'll never be able to let you go if you don't go now." Her voice wavered as she tried to keep her tears in check. "Here," she slid his coat off her shoulders and held it out for him. "Go, my darling, and be safe." He watched her lips tremble and her big, expressive eyes fill with tears.

"Remember, no more tears. I will see you in the morning." He held her face in his hands and kissed her gently one more time.

"Sleep well," she said. "For me. I won't." She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. "Excitement is getting the better of me. You're so worth the while." She took his arm and opened the car door for him.

"You must get back inside before you catch cold." He caught her hand in his and brought it to his lips.

"I love you," she said simply, as no other words were better suited. They fell far short of encompassing what was held within her heart, but she had the rest of her life to show him.

"I love you, Isobel. Inside now. Go." He watched her open the door and drove away. She leaned against the door, fingers pressed against her lips both to keep the tears at bay and in remembrance of Richard's kiss. When she moved toward the stairs Carson came to her side.

"I trust all is in good order, Mrs. Crawley?" he asked. He had an inkling of what must be going through her mind, but he felt it was still prudent to check in with her.

"It is, Mr. Carson," she said, a smile forming on her lips. "I'm afraid I find myself once again in the role of lovesick bride. Who would have believed it?"

Carson could not hide his own smile. "I believed it, ma'am. For all it's worth I've seen it coming for an age now."

"Have you?" She smiled beautifully, delighted by the notion that the love between herself and Richard had been obvious to others for so long.

Carson let slip yet another grin. "If I am speaking out of turn I apologize, but have you not observed that great affection often begets great fury, ma'am?"

Isobel blushed wildly, studying the floorboards for a moment before looking up. "Careful, Mr. Carson, lest it appear you're speaking from experience," she teased.

This time Carson's cheeks reddened and he cleared his throat to try and cover his bluster. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean," he said unconvincingly.

Isobel huffed. "Please, Mr. Carson. I should think we've known each other long enough that we are friends now, yes?"

"It is a great privilege to be counted among your friends, Mrs. Crawley."

"Then as your friend, I'll chance impertinence to urge you not to ignore the obvious any longer. Yes, it's a risk anytime we put our hearts on the line. But you see, I've grown close enough to Mrs. Hughes that I can assure you, your risk would not go without reward." He was silent, considering her words, so Isobel continued. "There's a sweetness to love at our age, Mr. Carson. It's as if I've been kissed by God Himself, being given the chance to love and be loved with the benefit of experience, without the idealism of youth. My soul is at rest now in loving Richard and being loved by him. It's like I've come home." If her words hadn't given him pause, the look on her face most certainly did. "Listen to me ... I must sound very foolish. I should be off to bed now," Isobel finished. Had she said too much?

"You don't sound foolish at all, Mrs. Crawley. You sound happy, well and truly happy."

"I am, Mr. Carson. Completely." She paused for a beat. "I do hope I've not offended you. I simply cannot watch you and Mrs. Hughes long for one another unrequited without saying something, now that I know what you're missing. Don't miss it," she whispered at the end, giving his forearm a squeeze.

Carson glanced at her appreciatively. "If your words struck a nerve, it is only because the truth is difficult to face. I will take them under advisement, Mrs. Crawley." It was now he who suddenly took a keen interest in the grain of the floorboards. If she hadn't been paying close attention, Isobel would have missed his next words. "I love her," he whispered.

Isobel broke into a full smile. "There it is," she said triumphantly. "Don't keep it a secret any longer. Not from her. Good night, Mr. Carson."

He gave her a nod. "Good night to you, Mrs. Crawley." He smiled, adding, "This is the last time I'll be calling you 'Mrs. Crawley.' Get some rest."

"I shall, and you do the same."


Isobel climbed the stairs and made her way to the room that was hers for the night. Glancing at the bed she shook her head. It was only a double, but it looked enormous to her when she thought of the prospect of sleeping alone. This is ludicrous, Isobel. You slept alone every night of your life for twenty years. Pull yourself together, woman. She thought a bath might help, so she opened her bag to find her nightgown and dressing gown and when she did so she noticed a small box sitting on top of her clothes with a note underneath it. On the envelope was written Isobel in Richard's neat, precise hand. She opened it, her stomach aflutter.

My Isobel,

It is with trembling hand that I write these words, but I do not tremble in fear. No, my darling, not fear, but anticipation, a giddy, almost boyish excitement. For tomorrow morning, I will take unto myself the wife I have waited a lifetime for.

It has only ever been you for me, Isobel. It sounds trite, but I knew unequivocally from the moment we met that I would love you until the last breath leaves my body. And beyond, my beauty, for love has neither beginning nor end. You are, to me, all which is good, and noble, and pure. You are human, to be sure, but you are the finest illustration of humanity. You won my heart, sweet girl, with your stubbornness, if you can believe it. Your tacit refusal to believe prognoses of 'no cure,' 'no hope,' 'nothing more to be done.' You are a healer, Isobel. You see possibilities where others - myself included - see statistics and precedent and would push no further.

You won me with your stubbornness, and you held me with your grace. At your most acerbic, you are still kind. In your greatest joy, you seek to bring others alongside to share in it. In the profundity of your grief ... torment of the kind no one should ever know, you reached out to me in love. You had the fullest extent of my devotion years before, but when you placed your heart in my hands for safekeeping, you gave me life, Isobel. A reason to be Richard, the man, and not merely Clarkson, the doctor.

I had thought it passed me by, Isobel. The opportunity to know, and be truly known, loved and permitted to love fully and without reservation, both in spite of and because of my eccentricities. And then the woman I have always wanted, whom I never dared to hope would return my affections, reached through the clouds of her deep dread and beckoned to me. Took ownership of my heart and brought me to life with four words: 'Do you love me?'

Oh, Isobel, yes. Just as I told you then, I tell you now. Yes, I love you. Have from the beginning. Will to the end and beyond. I have seen the joy in your eyes when you smile, the anguish when you cry, the fury when we argue. I have caught the sunlight in your hair as you walk through the garden, have marveled at the streaks of silver - lovely to me - that mimic the garments of your mourning. I have held your beautiful body in my arms in happiness, in grave sorrow, and in whispers of longing yet to be fully realized. Oh, my darling! I am shaking in earnest now. Tomorrow, Isobel! Tomorrow I will discover the answers to questions that have had me burning for - I say this to you because you are fearless and slow to pass judgment - years, love. Tomorrow I will know how you look at me when our bodies join, how your hair, unbound, fans out across our pillows, how your body feels beneath me, over me, surrounding me, with nothing between us. I have exercised restraint until now, but after just a few more hours, no longer will I. I love you with a force that humbles me, and so I want you with identical fervor. That you have expressed longing equal to mine has me rejoicing already and emboldens me to express it to you now, knowing that you will welcome me with all of your being.

Remember our day at the jeweler's in York? You warmly embraced the customs of my culture when we chose the ring I will give you tomorrow, loving as I do the symbols that represent the everlasting love we share. But then you are Isobel Fiona, so those traditions are not so far removed from you, are they? Scots blood surely accounts for the fire in your veins! I saw this that day and telephoned the jeweler the very next, asking that he send it to me with your rings. Wear it in good health and rest in the knowledge that I have loved you, Isobel. I love you now, this moment. And when someday we are no more, our love will remain.

Your only,

Richard

Isobel allowed herself to cry, to laugh, to memorialize each word as she read the letter. She opened the box to reveal a dainty gold pendant in the shape of an infinity knot with a pearl teardrop hanging from the bottom. She fingered it delicately, delighted at the thought of putting it on with her dress in the morning.

After her bath Isobel slipped into bed. She picked up Richard's letter, reading it again and again, and wondered if he were doing the same on the other side of the village.

When Richard arrived home from the Abbey, he prepared for bed straight away. As he walked through the cottage he was struck by the oddest realization: my house is not a home without Isobel here. It had been a fine house, had met all of his requirements for shelter and office space for close to thirty years. Decades he had lived alone, and its purpose was utilitarian. Now, after only a few short months of sheltering Isobel alongside him within its walls, there was not a floorboard upon which he could tread without hearing her footsteps, not a dark corner in the place any longer for they all seemed to be filled with her warmth and light. He walked into the bedroom and immediately felt the absence of her, his stomach churning at the prospect of lying alone in their bed. He understood now the sentiment Isobel had expressed. He missed her, terribly. As he moved about the room, gathering pajamas and dressing gown and blankets in preparation of sleeping on the sitting room sofa, his eyes fell upon a small box on top of the dressing table. A note accompanied it, addressed to him in Isobel's flourish.

Richard, my love,

My love. Do you know what joy it brings me to write those words? I loved once. It was marvelous; heady, exhilarating, all-encompassing, and then ... Then I was alone once more, singly Isobel for as many of my years as I'd been part of a couple and yet ... those fleeting years of togetherness became the framework for all the desolate ones that followed.

I threw myself into doing, into my work and raising Matthew and it was enough. I made it be enough. And then my baby was a man ... the independent, resourceful man his father would have been so proud to see him become. And suddenly the realization came to me that I hadn't allowed myself the time to ponder who I was, aside from Matthew's mother and Reginald's widow. Who was this woman, and what did she want? What did she dream of? Did she remember how to dream?

And then I met you. Yes, you, Richard. It sounds like the stuff of fairytales, overly dramatic and romanticized to say so, but you gave me a reason to dream again. Of a world in which radical treatments become mainstream, and spouses no longer lose one another to diseases that could be easily eradicated, and mothers and their newborn babies no longer face the prospect of death in the same breath with which they welcome new life. Of one in which those noble young men who give their lives over into the hands of evil in defense of the rest of us are bestowed with compassion and dignity when they return home, their broken bodies forced to give up the fight.

But you inspired more than merely professional ambitions. The calm resolve reflected in the blue of your eyes became the counterpoint to the turmoil inside of me. Steady, Isobel. Look around you. Indeed, I had no further to look than into those eyes when my Matthew, all that remained of the great love of my life, was wrenched away from me so violently and without warning. I should not have survived it, Richard. Not the loss of my only son, after the injustice of losing his father. I would not have, except that you caught me just as I was falling, gladly, over the precipice. You willed me to live when all I wanted was to die, and you loved me through it, nurtured me so that instead of slipping into the state of suspense that accompanies this kind of tragic loss, I have grown, Richard.

I see now. I see that we only came together in the time and circumstances we did because love was there, underlying it all, all along. I am a doer by nature, my darling, in case notice of that fact had escaped you. But I need a catalyst in order to be sprung into action. I suppose there was no greater gift my son's love could have left with me than for the loss of him to make me face the feelings I have had for you since 1912. It may have all begun for me with the beguiling blue of your eyes, but it grew in the way you sought me out as a confidante and allowed yourself to be mine, the way you fought for my involvement in the administration of the hospital ... against the formidable force of my family, no less! When I allowed myself to see what was right in front of my eyes, it was astounding in its simplicity. Isobel is in love with Richard.

How is it that I am found worthy of so great a love? I've said this to you before, I know, but not a moment goes by that I cease to be amazed ... Richard, how is it possible that the love - and the profound desire that exists between you and I - eclipses that which I knew with Reginald? It was disconcerting to me at first, made me question the nature and motivation behind my love for him, but in time I saw it for what it is. You and I love, purely and deeply, because of all the living we have done. There is no pretense between us, no false illusions of perfection. You know me. You are the only person who has ever truly known me. I know you, and I love you for all that you are. Your idiosyncrasies are my opportunities to bestow upon you the grace with which God has showered me, and I have heard you articulate the same. How then, all these things being true, could we not long for one another physically with intensity?

I have told you these things, and unlike you I speak with greater eloquence than I write. I will burn until I lay with you tomorrow night, but then I will burn brighter once I know what it is to be your lover. There is nothing in all my life, indeed in all the world, that I have wanted more.

You speak of our love neither beginning nor ending, but existing always, having had only to be realized, catalyzed and acted upon. Having lost love as I did, I know your theory to be truth. I can see that every moment of my life until now has been to prepare me for this one. You were in my past although I didn't know it. You are so very much in the present ... the smile I live for, the kiss on my lips even when we are apart. You will be my future, my constant through all our days and eternally.

In that spirit I give you this small token of my affection. I purchased these the day we found my rings and you shared with me the meaning of the symbols that encompass the nature of our love.

I am yours, Richard. Wholly and completely, in heart, mind, soul and finally, after just a few more hours, in body.

In love everlasting,

Your Isobel

Richard opened the box to reveal the cuff links Isobel had purchased on their visit to York. They complemented her wedding band and the pendant he had slipped into her bag that night. He would wear them tomorrow, to be certain, but he had the thought that he would now wear them every time cuff links were called for. He may not wear a ring, but he would wear these as a symbol of his belonging to Isobel just as surely as she belonged to him.