"Molesley, I think my waking up at all this morning was a very bad idea," Isobel called to the butler as she took off her coat and hat and hung them on the coat-stand in the hall, "I ought to have slept through about a week, I think, and then everyone might have forgotten about me."

Molesley was evidently still quite alarmed by the display of events that he had seen at breakfast that morning, because he hovered halfway down the stairs, rather than coming all the way down to meet her. But Isobel couldn't blame him. She did not have the energy to.

"I'm going for a lie down," she told him wearily, making her way down the hall, "Wake me up if the house catches fire, but not for anything less serious."

"Ma'am, if you're wanting a lie down, why are you going to the sitting room?" he asked, taking a nervous step down the stairs, "Won't you be more comfortable in your room?"

"No, Molesley, I've thought about this. The light will be around that side of the house, but it will be getting nice and dark in the sitting room. Please don't make me justify myself any more, I don't think I can stand to. Tell Matthew not to come charging in."

"But, Ma'am, that might not be a very good idea-..."

She ignored him, turning the handle of the sitting room door and letting herself in, ready to simply fall over onto the first sofa or chair she found.

That was until she came across the reason that Molesley had protested against her entering the sitting room. She stood in the doorway, holding onto the handle to keep herself upright, blinking, not quite believing this next turn for the worst that her luck had taken. She felt Molesley- who had apparently run down the last few stairs to try to catch her up- appear behind her shoulder.

"There's a visitor, Ma'am," he told her, unnecessarily, "Dr. Clarkson."

"Yes, Molesley, I can see that."

...

Having sent Molesley to fetch them some tea- if only to get him out of the way, he had made the situation, if possible, even more awkward by goggling at them both in his horror- Isobel settled herself much more primly than she had originally intended on the sofa opposite the doctor. He at least had the good grace to look moderately abashed. The silence was such a prominent participant in this meeting that it seemed to be singing songs at them, and comical ones at that. Finally he cleared his throat, with considerable unease, and spoke.

"I hope you are... alright," he told her, evidently a little stuck for words, "That is, I hope you are quite well, after-... after-..." He seemed to decide that nodding empathetically, and gesticulating gratuitously would suffice instead of any of the words he was looking for, which made Isobel think that none of them were particularly complimentary.

"I'm fine, thank you," she told him curtly, resisting the temptation to add No thanks to you, on the end of it. Yes, she knew most of it was entirely her fault for having drunk so much, but a tiny a part of her was nagging that she was not usually given to drinking, and had he not bought her so much to drink she certainly would not have got as drunk as she had done. This however sentiment, however, almost completely confused her tired brain enough just by thinking it, and if she attempted to articulate it to him, she had no doubt that she would get into a dreadful muddle. So she didn't.

He looked for a moment as if he was about to say something, but he did not get the chance as Molesley arrived with the tea.

They sat in perfect silence as the tea was distributed to them. Thankfully, Molesley seemed to sense that his being there as a witness was only making things a hundred times more awkward, and so left; either that or the atmosphere was simply so much that he had to make a break for it.

Having been given a teacup to hold, Isobel was afforded something fresh to examine so that she could avoid looking at doctor directly. So engrossed was she in examining the pattern of the saucer that she was genuinely taken aback when he did speak.

"Look here, Mrs Crawley," he told her firmly, brusquely almost, "Although of course I called round here to see that you were well, I also mean to sort this blasted mess that we've made for ourselves out."

She was quite taken aback by this sudden leap into action, and so could not quite organise her thoughts into a proper order, before her mouth started to talk anyway.

"That we've made?" she repeated; the nagging little part of her brain was apparently the part that controlled what she said. Her incredulity and frustration, at the entire course of events suddenly sprang into full flow, "Forgive me, Dr. Clarkson, but as I remember, it was you buying the drink!"

To his credit, he remained relatively calm in spite of the violence of this outburst.

"I was hardly forcing down your throat, Mrs Crawley," he reminded her tersely.

This was true, she could think of no argument to that. She decided, then, to ignore it and attack from another angle.

"You do realise that now most of the house, if not the whole village, thinks we are married?" she demanded of him.

He shuffled his hands awkwardly.

"I have," he admitted, "Going about my business this morning, received a few remarks that would have seemed to suggest something along those lines. From Lady Violet in particular."

For this last note, she found she could offer nothing but sympathy, try as she might to remain entirely cross with him.

"Oh no," she groaned, "I've been studiously avoiding her all day. Was she at the hospital? I'm surprised you were able to go about your business there, as you put it. Haven't you got a sore head?" she added this last not without a hint of envy.

He almost gave her a smile then.

"Some people are considerably better at holding their alcohol than you are, Mrs Crawley," he informed her.

"I do not take that remark very well, Dr. Clarkson. Or give it any credit, indeed. From what little I do remember of last night, I seem to recall that your actions were just as out of sorts as mine."

"I hardly think I'd say tha-..."

"You allowed me to tell a complete stranger that we were married, and did not say one word to stop me!" she told him triumphantly, confidant that this was a point she could certainly score, "If I was acting out of sorts, then you were as well!"

Well done, Isobel, she thought once he seemed not to be able to think of a reply. She was not prepared, however, for the very earnest look he gave her.

"And were you speaking out of sorts, Mrs Crawley?" he asked her.

She got the feeling that that wasn't what he was asking her at all, but she couldn't be sure.

"In terms of facts," she began slowly, considering her words very carefully, "Yes, I suppose you'd say I was."

"In terms of facts you were telling downright fibs," he pointed out.

"Well, how was I to know that he wasn't really a policeman?" she asked incredulously, "I know one thing, if he had been I would have saved our skins! We'd have been in real trouble for being that drunk on public transport!"

"Do you think he believed you?" he asked, a decided note of doubt creeping into his tones.

She refused to be wrong-footed by that.

"That's not the point at all," she countered swiftly, pleased to be able to get into some kind of flow with her argument, "The fact that remains, that if he had been a real policeman, and if it had been left to you to get us out of trouble, we would probably both be locked up at this very moment! You didn't have a clue how to trick a policeman, not to put too fine a point on it, Richard, you were useless!"

Perhaps she had gone too far, he looked rather hurt by that remark. She hastened for something to say to put it right.

"But don't worry. I was entirely content with the excuse I came up with for us."

He raised an eyebrow at that.

"Were you? Isobel?"

"Yes, Richard. I think I was."

Nothing like an odd note to finish on. The End.

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