Chapter 21 – Half-Remembered Love Songs
The Red Lion was everything she expected, and more that she didn't.
She and Richard Clarkson walked over in the deepening twilight, making light conversation that hadn't anything to do with anything of import, which was rather fine with her. Her focus was split between two things as they strolled through the summer evening: anticipation of arrival at their destination and how distractingly well the good doctor looked, casually dressed for the evening, his light summer shirt open at the collar, his customary bowtie conspicuously absent.
And now, here they were. She had expected the casual environment, how folks who usually wouldn't interact outside of these rooms conversed and greeted each other warmly, like old friends. What she hadn't been able to conceive of was the honesty of the place. Richard Clarkson had said it so well: people found you as you were, and accepted it, no questions asked.
It took a minute or two to adjust, as it was the opposite of her life outside that bright crimson door, but the Lion and its clientele weren't in a rush. With a wry look, her companion escorted her up to the bar.
A young barkeep, wearing a loose blue blouse and tweed trousers held up by red suspenders, her dark hair piled haphazardly atop her head, nodded and grinned at them as they approached
"Rich! Evening! You singin' for us tonight, then?" The woman poured a whiskey and set it before him, then turned to her. "And for you, love?"
Isobel choked back laughter. The barkeep was thirty years her junior. 'Love', indeed. She cleared her throat, not entirely sure what was going to come out of her mouth, and said, "Something between a Scotch and champagne, please."
The woman behind the bar burst into sunny laughter. "Excellent, right. Why don't the pair of you take that nice corner table there, and I'll bring it over in a mo'?"
"Thanks, Jenny," he took his drink and glanced over at Isobel as they moved to the spot the bartender had gestured to.
"Did she just call me 'love'?" Isobel grinned at him.
"Welcome to the Lion, Lady Isobel," he answered, sipped his drink.
"That won't do, will it?" She replied, her heart suddenly pounding. She realized, like a slap in the face, this evening wasn't about idle curiosity, or her recent restlessness, her loneliness. No, there was something else going on here, and she realized she wanted it to be going on. Never mind, the doctor was looking at her questioningly.
"Pardon?"
"I can't be 'Lady Isobel' here. It's ridiculous," she shook her head. "Please feel free to use my Christian name whilst we're here, Doctor."
"Very well, Isobel," he leaned back, sipped his drink again. "And I'll make the reciprocal offer, though please feel free to address me as you most feel comfortable."
She hesitated only a moment before answering him. "I'll take you up on that, Richard." It was easier than she expected, calling him by his first name, after all this time. All these years. Something in his face shifted and he held her gaze for a long moment.
Suddenly, the bartender was upon them, with a cocktail glass filed with murky amber liquid, a sprig of something green floating atop it.
"Here you are then, love, something between a Scotch and champagne," she set the drink before Isobel.
"I thank you, Jenny," she responded and sipped it. "Delicious." She meant it. It was exactly what she wanted, what she needed, right now. "I'm Isobel, by the way." She offered her hand, and they shook.
"Nice to meet you, Izzy," Jenny replied. "Do you sing as well? Can we expect a duet later, Rich?"
"Hardly," Isobel answered, trying mightily to not laugh. "Though I expect Richard will regale you all later with a few traditional tunes."
The pair of them watched her navigate her way back to the bar. Then she caught Richard's eye and they both started laughing.
"I can't decide which was better, or worse," she finally said, sipping her drink again. "But don't get any ideas, now."
"Even at the Lion, I don't expect I'd ever address you as 'Izzy', you can be assured of that, Isobel," Richard replied. "Nor 'love', at that." He answered, his voice teasing, but she noticed his look was contemplative. As if he actually wasn't quite sure. As if there may be, at some point in an until-now-uncontemplated future, where he might call her one, or both.
She wasn't so sure herself, anymore.
oooOOOooo
They sat there for a while, in their rather well-situated corner table, watching the place fill up, again, chatting about nothing noteworthy. It never became too crowded; the patrons seemed to have an unspoken sense of when to shift themselves from room to room. She noticed that many of them, especially, but not limited to, the younger folks, would have a round of drinks in the front, then disappear behind the heavy red curtain at the back, into the private room beyond.
It was a fine spot for viewing as well as a fine spot for not being viewed; she saw several people she knew as the evening wore on. That didn't surprise her. What did was that all of them simply smiled and nodded at her as if she was expected, even welcome, here. Thomas Barrow arrived with a group of people, including the handsome haberdasher from Ripon; Septimus Spratt from the Dower House (which did stop her heart for a beat, but the man merely grinned at her and turned towards his friends); the green grocer and his wife; the only person that gave her more than a perfunctory glance was her driver, Jack Davis, who arrived with a pretty blond on his arm around nine o'clock. He caught her eye and tipped her a wink, then carried on towards the snug in the back.
Shortly thereafter, the singing began, begun with Jenny, who had a startlingly beautiful alto voice that had half the room in maudlin tears after a few numbers. Before she began her third song, she turned towards their table and shouted
"Yeh're next, Rich! Yeh need to prop all these fine people back up after I take the wind outta them!"
Richard tipped his finger at her as she began to sing her final song, then turned to Isobel.
"You don't mind me abandoning you for a few tunes, do you, Isobel?"
"On the contrary, I'm rather looking forward to it." She meant it.
"That's kind of you to say," he answered, drained his second drink. "I don't often go back to where I grew up, but I can't help loving the old tunes." He paused then looked over at her, seemed to consider something. "They remind me of wife."
Isobel's heart caught in her throat. "Pardon?"
"I was married, Isobel, was I was little more than a lad, and she a lass. Her name was Sorcha. She was lovely, but more than that, she was kind, and her mind was as keen as the edge of a knife. She died, a long time ago. She was only twenty-three years old," his finished softly.
"I didn't know," she was trying to sort it all out.
"How could you have? I never said," he shrugged. "It was forty years ago, Isobel, and you are not the chronicler of my life, are you?" He smiled gently, and she recalled what she'd said to him at the Molesleys' wedding reception a few weeks ago.
"How?" She couldn't help herself, thought she should have.
"Childbirth," he sighed. "And I couldn't save her, or our wee bairn."
She looked hard at him, her breath caught high in her chest. He had been a father, or almost had been; that lost baby would have been the same age as Matthew. If they were both still alive, she thought, thinking of him standing at her son's graveside. Wondering where his own child was buried, so very far away.
"I apologize. I shouldn't have said, not here, not tonight," he sighed, looking at her closely. "It doesn't make me sad, not any longer, you see? Sorcha was full of fun, full of life. I like remembering her. She couldn't carry a tune a'tall, bless her," he laughed. "She used to tease that I'd have to sing the babe to sleep, lest she terrify him…"
"And you never remarried," she answered.
"Nae, I never remarried," he replied. "We only had a few years, Sorcha and I, but they were lovesick, mad, wonderful years, do you know?"
"Yes, I do. I do know, Richard," she answered, thinking of Reg. Of her love for him, especially in those early days, being drunk on it, practically.
"I never remarried, though I contemplated it a time or two, since," he stood up, as Jenny and the gathered crowd were calling to him now. He gazed down at her, and she felt a flush run through her, up and down the length of her.
Of course. Of course he had.
oooOOOooo
He brought the house down with a few mildly off-color love songs, like the one she'd caught him singing in the lane last week. She was rapt watching him. He had a pleasant voice, yes; that she already knew. What she hadn't know was he was a bit of a performer. And the crowd at the Lion adored it. Where else in Yorkshire could a Scotsman sing to his heart's content, unbothered?
He paused dramatically before his final song, and the crowd whistled and catcalled. There were shouts of "Donald!" and "Trousers!" He raised his hands, and nodded at the crowd, settling them, a smirk tilting his mouth under that mustache of his. She stood, almost unaware that she was doing so.
Then he began singing again.
"I've just come down from the isle of Skye
I'm no very big an' I'm awfully shy
The lassies say as I go by…"
He paused dramatically, and the crowd roared its response:
"Donald, where's your trousers?"
She burst out laughing, though the sound of her mirth was overwhelmed by the rowdy whoops of the crowd. He was looking over at her in any case, as he started the second verse, as if there weren't dozens of shouting pub patrons between them. As if they two were the only ones in the room.
oooOOOooo
The night was nearly over. She was surprised at how regretful that made her.
They walked back towards Crawley House, a short enough stroll, and she felt as if both of them were taking their time, stretching the evening out. They were back outside now, out of the raucous safety of the Lion, back to Lady Isobel and Dr. Clarkson, but loath to let go of Isobel and Richard just yet.
They reached her front walk too quickly.
"Thank you, Lady Isobel, for such a lovely evening," his doffed his hat at her. He gazed at her for a long moment, then took her hand, bent over it and kissed it. She felt the tickle of his mustache, wished she could see his face.
"You are very welcome, Dr. Clarkson, though I feel that I am the one who owes you thanks," she replied, then grinned at him. "If for the performances, only."
And while he was chuckling, she did something that shocked and please both of them: she moved quickly towards him, and kissed his cheek. Then stepped away, as if she'd never done so. His face was soft and open, and he let go of her hand reluctantly.
"Good night, Lady Isobel," he nodded.
"Good night, Dr. Clarkson."
She stood there, in the summer night, watching him go. Very glad that the staff that she kept would be long asleep, as she told her housekeeper there'd be no need for them once she returned. And yes, she was capable of undressing and bedding herself, at least for one evening.
It was time to retire, it really was, but she couldn't quite bring herself to go inside yet. She wasn't tired, in any case. She stood there, staring up at the starry sky, the moon grinning down at her, grey clouds drifting swiftly by.
She thought of Reg, of how besotted she'd been with him, all those years ago. Of a woman named Sorcha who would forever be young, still beloved by a doctor in his sixties. Of Dickie Merton, dear, sweet Dickie, who had been such a gentle, wonderful friend to her, whom she had loved, in a rather polite and controlled way, yes, but it had been love, nonetheless.
She thought of the drink Jenny had brought her, somewhere between Scotch and champagne, something delicious and new and unlike both of them. Something just right for the woman she was now.
And, finally, of that moment in the Lion, catching the doctor's eye across the room, being smacked with the reality of it: she was in love with him.
She was in love with Richard Clarkson.
She didn't feel giddy or mad with it, no. Nor did she feel…polite…about it.
Like the cocktails she'd been drinking tonight, it felt delicious and new and just right.