Chapter 26 – Found Out

A/N: For CSotA, because she was SO VERY PATIENT about this whole thing. ;-)

Isobel clutched the small posy of flowers in both hands, made her way up the gentle incline that wrapped around the side of the church. She looked down at them, smiled, then brushed a rare tear from her cheek. She'd pulled them, this small bunch, from a much larger bouquet that had arrived at Crawley House yesterday morning.

While she was visiting with Violet Crawley.

The maid had brought them in and she couldn't see the girl's face around all of the flora and greenery. Isobel's stomach had lurched delightfully at the sight of them. They could only be from one person.

"My goodness, who died?" Violet intoned.

"Thank you, Mariah, you can leave those on the corner table. She rose, plucking the card quickly from where it was nestled. Her cousin was leaning slightly adrift, resting heavily on her walking stick, her eyes as wide and guileless as a baby bird.

"Hopefully no one important," she retorted, glancing quickly down at the writing. Stuck in the muck of medicine. Will miss tea. Lion, tomorrow evening, if you are able and willing. Eternally sorry, and grateful. ~Dr. R. C.

It took all she had not to laugh. She slid the card into her pocket, and sat across from Violet.

"All is well?" The other woman looked benignly at her, but her eyes were pale and bright.

"Yes, it is, in fact."

"The last time I saw a personal arrangement of flowers like that, it was right before Prince Kuragin left Yorkshire for good. They lasted quite longer than I expected, actually," Violet's tone was easy, her face momentarily soft.

Isobel could still feel the card, sitting in her pocket. "He still loved you, Cousin Violet, don't you think?"

"I believe he did, Cousin Isobel," Violet sighed, glanced out the bay window, then turned her gaze back onto Isobel. "And, had it been appropriate to feel such things towards a lawfully married man, I may have still loved him. Had it been appropriate, of course."

"Of course," Isobel answered. Her heart ached in so many places, for so many people, she wasn't sure how it was still beating. The flowers in the corner were too beautiful for this room, the note, too large for her pocket.

"A man who sends a bouquet like that has loved the recipient for a long time, I believe, right or wrong," Violet said, looking at the flowers.

"Yes," Isobel sighed. "You're probably right."

"Why did you marry Dickie Merton?"

The question was so sudden, it made her gasp, like cold water on her face in the morning. She spoke before she could think properly, which was, of course, what Violet Crawley was hoping for.

"Because he asked. Because he loved me…no, no, because he needed me. He needed my help, and my protection, from those children of his," her voice was bleak. Oh, Dickie, it was so unfair to you.

"And you made him happy, of course," Violet reminded gently. "Dickie Merton was not harmed by your actions, Cousin Isobel. Quite the contrary."

"He was a good man, a good husband."

"Oh, he most certainly was, even to the harridan who preceded you, Cousin Isobel," Violet rose, walked over to the flowers carefully, leaning on the walking stick that had saved a young boy's leg not so long ago. "You've had two good husbands, as much as they varied, in personality, and in your esteem."

"Yes," she answered. She couldn't find any other words.

"And now, it appears, you'll have a third," Violet bent low, murmuring, almost to herself. "These were well-arranged. I'll have to ask him where he ordered them from." Now the other woman turned back towards her fully, then sat across from her.

Isobel could feel her mouth was slightly agape.

"And possibly, this time, you'll be his project," Violet picked up her tea, took a sip. "Goodness knows, the man has put in enough time studying your particular way of doing things."

oooOOOooo

She thought of Violet, and of that massive arrangement of flowers. Squeezed the smaller version in her hands. She crested the small slope and of course. There he was, standing at Matthew's grave, hat in his hand, pressed against his chest.

He glanced up, caught sight of her. Grew crimson.

"Lady Isobel," he muttered.

"Dr. Clarkson," she knelt gracefully, placed the posy at the base of the gravestone. There were two others, one much like hers, likely just left by this extraordinary man beside her, and one by Mary, she guessed.

"I didn't expect to see you here," he said softly, standing over her. She pressed her fingers against the letters of Matthew's name.

"I was bound to catch you eventually, in your kindness and dedication, Doctor," she smiled ruefully up at him, proffered her hand. He helped her up. Kept her hand in his, though it was a politer grasp than a day and a half ago, just lightly pressing on her fingertips. "I am frankly surprised it took me nearly six years to do so."

"I did my best to make sure you never did," he shrugged, his face half-turned from hers. "Until a few weeks ago…when, well, I certainly didn't come here, expecting you. But I just stopped…"

"Avoiding me, intentionally?"

"Something just like that," he answered.

"I'm still uncertain why you did so in the first place, for so long."

He sighed. He still wasn't really looking at her.

"Because…because I was coming here for my own reasons. No, that's not exactly what I mean, not really. It was just…such a cruel, horrible stroke of fate. A boy losing his father on the day he was born. I came here, because Matthew died too soon. I came here because George should not have lost his father before he knew him. And yes, I came here, because he was your son. I'll not deny that, Lady Isobel. But, had people known, had you known, it would have been misconstrued. The truth of the tragedy would have been lost, in senseless gossip."

"You are a very good man, Dr. Clarkson," she said it before she could even consider it. The words just fell out of her mouth.

And now, at last, he turned back towards her, just gazing at her. Neither of them spoke for a long moment. He was still holding her fingertips lightly, at their sides.

"I know we've plans this evening, but might I entice you to tea in this moment?"

"You could, usually, but we're short-staffed today, again," he shook his head as they started back down the hill. "Two of my residents caught a nasty upper respiratory infection, the same one, which leads me to believe they'll likely start a husband-and-wife practice someday," he chuckled, and so did she. "Though, as you note, we've plans this evening, which I shan't be missing, not if every doctor and nurse in the building keel over at the same moment."

They were standing in front of Crawley House. He squeezed her hand again.

"This evening, then, Lady Isobel. The Lion."

"Yes, this evening, Doctor Clarkson. Thank goodness for the Lion."

oooOOOooo

"Izzy! You're back! Brilliant!"

She was greeted enthusiastically by Jenny, the barkeep from the other night. She exchanged a grin with Richard, who laughed aloud. Before either of them could say a word, their drinks were set before them: a whisky neat for him, that lovely, cloudy amber drink the bartender had made for her the last time she was here.

"Tis named after you, you should know," Jenny nodded at her cocktail. "I threw it together, a little bit of a bunch of different things, to make something…delicious. Temptin', even. After I made it for you, I offered a few around, people seemed to enjoy 'em. 'Izzy's Choice' I'm callin' them."

"What you don't know, Jenny, is that Isobel is one of the most decisive people of my acquaintance, so this concoction is aptly named," he took a sip of his own straightforward drink.

"What I don't know, Rich, could fill a library. What I don't know, is anything that happens out there," she gestured towards the door. "The Lion, is the Lion. The rest of the world, well. Good luck to it."

She meandered away from them with a smile and a wink, and they walked to the spot they'd taken last time. They sat, sipping their drinks in silence that was easy and warm.

"Do you think that's really true, then?" She finally interrupted the calm. "I'd like to think so, if only because it's such a wonderful idea: come as you are, be taken as you are. I want to believe it. I've seen Spratt no fewer than a dozen times since we've been here, and the man's never even raised his eyebrow at me. And he's a pot-stirrer if there ever was one."

Richard was nodding, and laughing. "Yes, it's odd, when you think about how much a village thrives on gossip. But not here; it has no currency here, for some reason. I rather like that, don't you?"

"I do, indeed," she replied.

"What's odd, is I've seen relationships, friendships, courtships, and the like, start here, and grow here. The people involved often do wind up taking them outside, into the real world, as much as possible. Some of those…entanglements…live and die here, but many of them carry on, beyond that red door," he mused.

"That's encouraging," she said. And she reached out and took his hand in hers. His head spun back around to her, his face comically surprised.

"Isobel."

"Richard," she answered. Sipped her drink, named for her. "Tell me something. Anything."

"What do you want to know?" He was pleased and perplexed, in equal measure.

"Just…something about you. That I don't know, after all these years. Something foolish, or heartwarming, or tragic. No, maybe skip tragic, for this evening. Something wild or brave, perhaps. And adventure, even Tis your choice, as this is mine," she raised her drink at him, and the toasted.

"But you are not the chronicler of my life, Isobel," he grinned, his lips curving under that mustache of his.

"I'm not, presently. But I may be, if I am lucky enough, perhaps," he heart was pounding, with nervousness, and excitement, and lust and yes…with love. This was not at all like how she'd felt with Reg, or Dickie. This was something different. She could hear every sound he made, see every pore on his cheek, felt the warmth radiating from his leg, close to hers, underneath the table. She was not sick with love for Richard Clarkson, no. She was well with it.

The look on his face at her words softened something around her heart she hadn't know was hardened. For a moment, he just smiled, shook his head. He spoke, at long last.

"Foolish, heartwarming, wild, brave," he repeated. "An adventure." He said, and now his voice was thick with emotion. "Well, alright, then."

"I love you, Isobel. I have for a very long time, as you know. I never thought I'd have the opportunity to say it, like this, out loud, to you. But here I am. Here you are," he laughed, but his eyes were, oh, so lovely.

"Yes, here we are. Exactly as we are."

He looked at her hard for a moment. Then reach his hand out, stroked her cheek. Leaned over, and kissed her, there at the corner table in the front room of The Red Lion.

What other choice was there?