Set straight after the end of episode 6.
He had come back down to his office after assembling in the main hall to listen to the chimes at eleven o'clock. He had been sad at the time to have had to file out quietly with the other officers, and not leave with Isobel, but he knew that they still had to be discreet and somehow he thought that holding her, kissing her there and then, driving away all the sadness the reflection had left them with probably couldn't be called discreet in any way. Given all of this, he was rather surprised, when he opened the door of his office- well, really it was their office now, just as his bed had become theirs bed too- and found her rifling hastily through the drawers of her desk, her stance and movements rather distressed.
Closing the door, he slipped up behind her quietly, wrapping his arms around her and planting a single kiss on her neck. For a second, she acquiesced and relaxed into his hold, their heads resting tenderly against each other, but soon afterwards he felt her nudge him gently away and continue to search through the desk. He could barely hold back an exasperated sigh, as he walked round to sink into the chair that she had moved to stand alongside the desk as she continued to apparently empty it of its entire contents.
"What are you looking for, Isobel?"
"My references from the Red Cross in Paris," she told him without looking up, her brow furrowed as she started on another drawer, "I thought I'd better have them just in case, for when I start working for the refugee council. I know they asked for me personally, but it doesn't hurt to have references anyway just to be absolutely sure."
"You're going through with that, then?" he asked, "The refugee work?"
She looked up now, at the tone of his voice, from where she bent down over the desk.
"You say that as if you're surprised."
"I am," he admitted, "I didn't think you'd actually get around to it. I thought you were just indulging Lady Grantham by saying that you would."
"Which Lady Grantham?" she asked wryly, kneeling uncomfortably down on the floor and returning to her search, "The elder or the younger? Don't answer that, actually. No, I am going. Why do you think the convalescent home is going to be closed? I asked Cora to keep it open without me, but she said she'd decided against it. To tell you the truth, I think she was just waiting for the first opportunity to do so. But anyway, I'm really on to these poor refugees now. They need my help most, and Cousin Violet has made me realise that."
He brushed his hand firmly across his forehead.
"Don't you realise, Isobel, that she's just trying to get rid of you for Lady Cora's benefit so that they can all have their precious house back?"
"Oh, nonsense," she told him dismissively, continuing her search.
"Isobel," he spoke with such firmness that she had to listen to him, "Think about what you've just said to me."
She was quiet for a long moment.
"Well," she continued with less confidence now, "Even if that is what they're up to, it doesn't change the fact that these refugees need me. And so they shall have me. Ah, here it is."
He frowned a little as she inspected the sheets of paper with her references on.
"Anyway," she told him after a moment, smiling at him for the first time,"You've got nothing to worry about, I won't be going anywhere this time. Just working when you'll be at the hospital anyway, and then we can have our evenings together without having been treading on each other's toes all day. As far as I can tell, it's a perfect arrangement."
"So," he began cautiously, almost casually, very aware that it was essential for him to say this in the right way, "You wouldn't have ever considered, sort of... taking things a bit more easily now that the war is over?"
Her eyes snapped up from the paper.
"Richard, what are you suggesting?"
"I'm suggesting that you might find it more... beneficial to stop working yourself half to death for other people. You've done that for most of your life, and I think it's about time that you gave it up before it starts to do you more harm than good," he finished rather weakly, aware of the look she was giving him.
She was ominously quiet for a few moments.
"Firstly," she began, "I resent the implication that I am too old to do anything worthwhile. We both know that's absolute cobblers; I'll retire when I'm good and ready and not a day before. Secondly, how beneficial do you think I'd find it to be loitering around the house all day, waiting for you to come home so I can have your supper on the table?"
"I didn't mean that," he told her hurriedly, "Of course, I'd never suggest that you do that. I was rather thinking that I might start to take on less responsibility at the hospital myself, start delegating some of it, all of it eventually, to the more junior staff."
"You'd be just as bad at doing nothing all day as I would," she told him, no longer really listening, having returned to read the piece of paper, "Without something to occupy us we'd both be dead within half a year."
"But we would have-..." he suddenly realised that she wasn't understanding him at all because she was only half-listening. Standing up, he took the piece of paper from her hands, ignoring her protestations, holding her hands securely in his, "Isobel, I'm not suggesting we spend the rest of our lives alone and doing nothing. In fact, I'm suggesting the exact opposite: that we spend spend them together. That we get married, and live together, and spend the rest of our days together. What do you think?"
He saw uncertainty in her eyes, and he knew then that it was no good.
"Richard-..." she began, thoroughly shocked at the suddenness of it all, "We've never even discussed that we might..."
"Did you not think that was where we were going to end up?" he asked her in genuine puzzlement.
"Well, no, as a matter of fact I didn't," though she still held his hands tightly, it did nothing to reassure him, "I suppose I always thought we'd just go on as we are. I thought we were both happy like this. You are, aren't you?" she asked.
"Of course I am," he assured her, "Isobel, I'm happier with you than I've ever been. It's not that I'm unhappy as we are at all, I just wondered if we mightn't be happier if we were..."
"What?" she asked, her eyes wide, weighing him up, "Respectable? Are you ashamed of us, Richard?"
"No!" he told her, "I don't give a damn who knows about us or not. Let them think what they think! I just thought that we might be happier if we spent out days together instead of apart. Especially after your time in Paris."
She was watching him with tenderness, he feigned to say pity, in her eyes.
"You see, Richard, I'm not sure that we would. I'm sorry, but I really don't think we'd be very good like that. I wish I did, but my gut feeling is that we wouldn't; we'd be hopeless. Heavens, I even left you once in order to feel useful!" she exclaimed, "Not that I ever would again, but just think about it. We both need something to do, and I know I'm not ready to give that up yet. So why not go on as we are? We can be together, and both do some good at the same time."
He was quiet, there was nothing he could say to that.
"Oh, Richard!" she exclaimed, dropping his hands and wrapping her arms tightly around his waist, surprising him into holding her out of instinct, "Don't be angry with me, and don't be hurt. I love you with all my heart, but I can't marry you now. I'm sorry. I couldn't do it, especially when Matthew's in the state he is," she added.
"I thought you said he was in higher spirits when you spoke to him earlier?" he questioned, almost distracted for a moment in his capacity as a doctor.
"He comes and goes," she told him, "But most of the time he's still pretty bleak. And who can blame him? You know," she confessed, "When I said that him being alive was enough I meant it. But I'm not sure that I was really seeing it from his point of view. I know he certainly doesn't feel like that, now."
He sighed, his hand reached to the back of her head and holding it against his shoulder, hugging her body tightly to his in consolation, forgetting almost entirely about her rejection.
"There's still hope," he told her softly.
"Yes," she agreed, "In me there is. But I'm not sure there's any left in him. Don't you see, Richard, I couldn't... I couldn't. Not while he's... " her voice rose distinctly higher and he had to shush her, stroking her hair again.
"Yes, I see," he told her, "I understand," he held her quietly for a moment, "You know, I sometimes wish Matthew was my son too. Selfishly, I know. But then we could be a proper family, and I know that would make you happy."
"It would," she admitted, "I don't think it's selfish at all," she rested her head on his shoulder, smiling benignly, "I think that's the most beautiful thing anyone's ever said to me."
He kissed her hair, smiling down at her, her hand resting on his chest, brushing softly against the buttons on his uniform jacket. She was silent for a few moments, then spoke.
"You know, I don't for a second regret a moment of my marriage to Reginald. But at the same time I wish I'd met you sooner. I'd have very much liked to have had your child, Richard."
He closed his eyes for a second, stroking her lower back.
"I know, I know."
They did not speak for a while, just stood there, holding each other, letting everything- the end of the war, a proposal of marriage, heart-rending revelations- just wash over them.
"You know I'd marry you in a moment if we couldn't be together like this without it," she told him, "A piece of paper can't give us any more than we have already."
"I know," he repeated, "And the moment you feel ready to take up the offer..."
"Yes," she told him, smiling warmly up at him, "I know."
He kissed her hair again and then kissed her quickly on the lips.
"What say we go for a drink together?" he asked, "I know some were thinking of heading down to the Grantham Arms for a small celebration."
"And parade me around like a respectable woman?" she asked, the hint of a spark in her eye, "Yes, I don't see why not. It sounds rather fun. I think I could do with a drink."
"I don't care if you're respectable," he told her, almost entirely meaning it, though a little conscious of how quickly his good intentions had dissolved before his eyes, "You're mine, that's all that matters. I'll fetch your coat for you."
"No, no, it's alright, I'll get it myself," she told him, "But could you bring my references for me? I don't want to lose them again."
As she left the room to find her coat and hat, he felt himself watching after her in bemusement and slight disbelief, mingled with his usual awe.
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