A/N: This chapter sets up the events of the next chapter. Thanks for the reviews and continuing to stick with this rollercoaster lol!

Charles had contacted AI, but had gotten nowhere. The damned thing kept insisting he was where he was supposed to be. They'd argued for over an hour before Charles had gotten so annoyed that he'd disconnected and went back to the house, mumbling as he went. He couldn't possibly be where he was supposed to be if the man he was here to save from death didn't come anywhere near death for over a year.

Blasted contraption!

When he got back, he'd have to see about having the thing tested to make sure it wasn't malfunctioning.

He huffed.

That's what they got for relying on artificial intelligence.

"Never makes mistakes, my arse." Charles grumbled.

He hadn't even brought up the fact that there was another Óra present, he'd been too afraid it would fry the damn thing's circuits beyond repair.

If he had mentioned Elsie, Charles would have learned that she wasn't there by order of AI. AI had no idea that there were two Óra present in the timeline, that he'd unwittingly broken a cardinal rule of time travel.

Of course, even if Elsie hadn't been there, the rule would still have been broken, though no one save for the Ancient One would have known because no one knew where she'd disappeared to.

Charles surely didn't suspect that there were three of them in the same timeline, much less in the same house as he made his way inside in time to hear that the Dowager Countess' car was pulling up the drive.

"I'll tend to it, Mr. Barrow."

"Yes, Mr. Carson." Thomas answered just barely managing to hold his snarl in check.

Charles shook his head as he hurried up the stairs. He really didn't like that young man. He was always plotting, hiding about so that he could catch snippets of conversations he wasn't to be privy to. Thomas Barrow wasn't the first person of his type that Charles had come across – cruel and sneaky, trying to get ahead at the expense of others.

He and Elsie would have to be careful of where they talked about certain things. If Thomas learned of them, death and being in the wrong part of a timeline would be the least of their worries.

CnE

Richard Clarkson was tired which only made his irritation more pronounced. Why did no one want to listen to him? He'd known Sybil Branson from the first moment he'd heard her heart beating within her mother's womb. He'd been there the day she took her first breath. He'd been the one to gently clean her and prepare her to meet her mother, not his nurse as was usual. Lady Sybil had chosen the middle of the night to make her appearance and he'd been roused from his sleep with no time to call for a nurse or the midwife.

He could still remember that night with perfect clarity.

Lady Gratham had always been very lucky in childbirth, always seeming to have an easy go of it. But not with Lady Sybil. The labor hadn't lasted as long as it had with the eldest two daughters, but it had been more trying and difficult on the woman. Thinking back on it, he shouldn't have been surprised as Lady Grantham had more trouble during the pregnancy than she'd had with the other two. He'd had to place her on bedrest six months into the pregnancy which had made the woman terribly irritable with him.

He laughed when he recalled her looking at him bashfully after the birth, apologizing to him as she held her baby to her, thanking him for forcing her to take to her bed and standing his ground even when she was so very hateful to him because of it.

He had simply smiled and told her that he was used to it – she wasn't the first woman to be angry with him for confining her to bed, nor would she be the last. What he hadn't told her was that the men were often just as angry, if not more so, because their wives worked the farms along side them in some cases and with her confined to bed, the man was left to do it all himself.

A hardship especially during harvest.

Now here he was being replaced by an egotistical man that knew nothing of Lady Sybil's medical history. And why?

"Because he's a damned knight that practices on bloody Harley Street! That makes him a much better doctor of course!" He shouted as he threw his tea cup across the room, watching as it shattered against the wall.

Isobel, who had opened the door to his office in time to see him chuck the cup against the wall, halted in her steps as she watched the man. She felt a stirring in her heart at the pain she could see on his face, pain that would have appeared as nothing more than anger to anyone else.

She knew he was angry, too, but it was more pain at the thought of what would happen to the youngest Crawley, a girl that she knew the doctor held close to his heart. She'd watched him work with Lady Sybil when she'd been Nurse Crawley during the war. Isobel had heard him remark on several occasions that out of all of the young nurses that had come through Downton Cottage Hospital during the war, Nurse Crawley had been their best.

Isobel had whole heartedly agreed.

Lady Sybil Crawley was nothing like her sisters. The fact that she was now Sybil Branson, wife of an Irishman who started off as the family's chauffer, was only one thing that proved her difference.

She'd grown past her upbringing. Sybil wasn't just the daughter of an Earl. She'd made something of herself. She had skills that she could use to help others.

True, Edith had learned to drive, had helped on a farm during the war, but she was still more limited that Sybil.

Isobel didn't even want to think of her daughter-in-law. She loved that Matthew was happy, but heaven above, Mary was all aristocrat with no skills outside of those that had been deemed appropriate for her to find a man to be a wife to. The girl couldn't even cook. She knew that Mary had helped with Matthew when he'd been brought in after being injured during the war, but it was only because it was Matthew.

Would the girl have lifted her dainty hands to help with someone else?

Isobel doubted it.

Sybil had thought nothing of it.

Isobel had watched the young woman fight against her own need to be sick as she helped clean wounds that reeked of infection, showing a fortitude Isobel was sure the young woman had gotten from her grandmothers. After having met Martha Levinson, and knowing Violet, Isobel hadn't been so surprised at Sybil's difference from her sisters.

Sybil was the perfect blend of her mother's Americanism and her father's stiff upper lip British attitude.

Shaking herself from her thoughts, Isobel moved out of the doorway, closing the door quietly behind her before making her way over to where Richard knelt picking up the broken pieces of the tea cup.

Hearing him hiss, she knelt down beside him and gently took his hand. Looking at the sliver of china buried in his finger, Isobel clicked her tongue at the blood that trickled down onto her pristine apron. "These are surgeon's hands, you must be careful of them. The surgeon might need them," she whispered as she turned to look at him, their faces close, breath's mingling.

"The surgeon says he isn't much, it won't matter."

Isobel's heart hurt at the dullness of his tone, and the paleness of the grey-blue eyes as they looked at her. "The nurse says the surgeon is wrong. He's everything, it will matter."

Richard looked away. "I'm bleeding on your apron. I'm sorry." He pulled his hand away and stood, bending to help Isobel.

Isobel took Richard's hand back in hers after she'd righted herself. "I'm the nurse, let me tend to your finger."

"I can do it. I wouldn't want to take you away from what you were doing."

"What I was doing, was coming to check on the doctor. The nurses are all worried about him. It seems they've all noticed how different he's been the last few days."

"And why are you the one to come see about me? Surely that should be the head nurse's job."

"Because I am the one that volunteered. Because," Isobel whispered as she lifted her hand to cup his cheek. "Because I am the one that's stood beside her husband when he went through something much the same. I'm the only one that knows your struggle. The other's felt it best for me to talk to you. They all believe in you, Richard. They wanted me to make sure you knew that." Caressing her thumb over his cheekbone, Isobel smiled. "The family is wrong, Richard. I know that you are trying to mind your place, but don't. Forget that they're above you in social status. You're a doctor. Your ability to save lives puts you far above any of them. Fight for her. I'll fight with you if you want me to. Don't let this make you question yourself." Finished with her speech, Isobel gently went about removing the sliver from Richard's finger.

Richard sucked in a quick breath when Isobel pulled the sharp piece of china from his finger, more of his blood spilling onto her apron. "I'm afraid I owe you a new apron."

"Don't ignore what I've said, Richard. Damn my apron. You mustn't let them win. If you think Sybil would be better off here, order the ambulance and just move her, the family's permission or no. Talk to Tom. Tell him everything. He'll listen, Richard, and he's all that matters. If Sybil is coherent enough, talk to Tom in front of her. She'll know and trust you." Bandaging his finger, Isobel looked back up at her friend, the man she was slowly losing her heart to, and held his gaze. "I think you're right, if that means anything to you."

"It means more than you know, Isobel." Richard whispered. His gaze was caught in hers, the warm brown of her eyes seeming like melted caramel to him as he slowly leaned toward her, titling his head so that he could press his lips to hers.

Isobel hummed into the kiss. It had been so very long since she'd felt a man's lips on her own that she'd almost forgotten the thrill of it. This man was dangerous to her heart, but the silly thing didn't seem to realize it as it beat wildly in her chest in reaction to Richard's arms pulling her closer.

Oh boy.

She was in so much trouble.