Note: I hope you can actually read this chapter. I know there have been website issues with chapters loading and then vanishing and then failing to update. So, hoping you all can read this next installment.
Richard rushed into her bedroom. Isobel was sitting straight up, as if a steel rod had replaced her spine. Tears streamed down her face. Richard flicked on her bedside lamp. She blinked a few times, and then her eyes roamed the room as if searching for something.
"Matthew," she breathed. "Where's Matthew?" Her lips quivered.
Richard was not sure how to respond. He felt he could not sit on the edge of that bed, the one he felt sure that she and Reginald once shared.
He could not do that. He would not do that. No matter how much he loves her now, he would never invade that marriage. Never try to replace her thoughts of Reginald with dreams of him instead. If she even did dream of him, Richard dared to hope.
He knelt onto the floor by her bedside. Ever so steadily, he reached for her hand. "Isobel," he summoned her from the shadows. "My darling, you've been asleep. I'm here," he whispered.
She shook her head as if trying to banish a thought from her mind. She rubbed the corner of her eyes. "I miss him so much," she choked. "Sometimes I cannot bear it. I see him in my dreams. And he's right there. My little boy. He's right there, Richard. And then he's gone. And then I remember. And then I'm alone again." She looked down at the hand that wrapped around hers. Bringing it to her lips, she placed a kiss onto the back of it.
"You love with everything in you," Richard observed. "And it's a beautiful thing to witness and a terrible one to behold when there is nothing I can do to soothe your heart."
Isobel listened to his words. "I love you; you do know that?" She wanted him to feel as if she cared. She wanted him to know that she would somehow find herself again.
"Aye, that I do lass. But, sometimes, I have a terrible time trying to figure out what's going on in that head of yours," he admitted.
Raising slightly onto his heels, he brushed away a lock of hair that had fallen onto the front of her face, obscuring his view of her. He beheld her, a look of love in his eyes. I just want her to come alive again. To see that smile. To know that beautiful heart. To have her back.
He settled back onto his knees, despite his body's protests. "You used to be so easy to read, your frustrations, your thoughts tripped off the tip of your tongue...but now..." Richard stopped.
"Go on," she gestured with her hand, looking straight ahead. "But now what?"
"I wonder, that's all really. I worry about you, Isobel. You know that?" He balanced on his heels.
His knees cracked, and she heard it. She threw her legs over the side of the bed, motioning for him to sit in the reading chair that sat in the corner of the room. There was no fire burning in the fireplace, nestled in that corner nook.
She put on her dressing gown and sat in the chair opposite him.
"I suppose I should tell you that you are not the first man to tell me that he's worried about me in this room before," she began. "I should like to tell you a story." And her mind drifted back to the past, one that felt so very distant and so very near at the same time. She told Richard because she needed him to hear.
April 1884
"Iz, love." It was Reginald's voice. He knocked gently on their bedroom door.
He normally never would have done. But she had been so angry, so fragile, so upset when it happened. She screamed, she shouted, and she could not bear to be around her husband.
It had frightened Reginald to see her this way, more than he could voice.
A third miscarriage.
And it broke her.
It broke him too.
A few days ago, she had started to experience some minor pains in her back. She felt sure that she was safe this time. She had never been this far along in her pregnancy before. Surely, it would not happen again, that thing that destroyed her hopes, that thing that had her believing that she was less of a woman.
And then she had those cramps, what she could only imagine feeling as bad as contractions.
She had rushed into the bathroom, doubling over from the pain. She clutched her stomach. Not again. She silently begged. Oh God, please not again.
Tears welled in her eyes. Reginald had followed her into the bathroom. He saw the blood, so much blood. He let out a gasp. He hadn't meant for her to hear it. He was in shock.
Her head shot up to glare at her husband. Her eyes full of misery.
"There's no baby," she sobbed. "Not anymore. I know it." She felt wretched.
"What can I do, love?" Reginald whispered. Did she need the doctor or her husband?
Both, he reasoned as he began to lower himself to the floor to help her in whatever way he could.
Her mouth opened, and Reginald expected that she would let out another sob.
But what she said tore a hole in his heart.
"I want you to get out," she seethed; her voice low, threatening even.
"What?" He was not sure he had heard her right.
"Get out!" Isobel screamed, and Reginald swiftly stood and exited the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
She felt that in her abdomen - that wail. She held her stomach, looking at the blood. At what could have been.
You are not meant to be a mother, Isobel Crawley, she thought to herself. You were never meant to be a mother.
For a while, she simply sat on the bathroom floor, feeling the cool tile floor underneath the palms of her hand. She had flushed the toilet. She had removed her dress, balling it up and slinging it to the corner of the room.
She just laid there in her slip, knickers, and camisole; her legs bent to one side.
She inspected the blood on her slip. Why can't you do what you are supposed to do? She asked her body, holding her abdomen. Why is it that the one thing I want so dreadfully in this world is the one thing I cannot have? What must Reginald think? The third one. I do not think I can bear to be with him again. Would he even want me? Knowing what I cannot give him, what he so desperately deserves.
A thousand thoughts raced through the mind of young Isobel Crawley as she leaned against the bathroom wall. She soon found herself shivering from the cold tiles.
Noticing her robe hanging on the door's hook, Isobel discarded the rest of her clothing and slipped into the soft garment – bare beneath it.
She collected the clothes and opened the bathroom door. She breathed a sigh of relief when she did not come face to face with Reginald. He must be downstairs. Probably already on the phone to Doctor Todd to have him come here to check up on me.
She crept across the landing and went directly into their bedroom, shutting the door behind her. Reginald already had a fire going in the fireplace that sat at the corner in their reading nook. Two navy wing-back chairs also rested there, along with a small coffee table.
It was their one spot in the house that served as a private escape, a place where they could spend countless hours reading in each other's company.
Slipping into a clean nightdress, Isobel watched the flames dance for a few moments. She balled up her bloody clothing and threw them in there, watching them burn away any trace of what had been. Like it never happened, like it was never meant to be, Isobel thought. But then, another pain racked through her body, and she struggled over to the bed.
I'll recover. I just need rest. As a well-trained nurse, Isobel understood the mechanics of what had happened to her, and the knowledge did nothing to assuage the incredible guilt she still felt. How could it not have been her fault? She was the mother – or that is what she had hoped to become anyways.
A few hours later, Doctor Michael Todd opened her bedroom door to find Isobel sleeping peacefully. He coughed loudly, and she thankfully stirred.
"Hello, Nurse Crawley," Doctor Todd said, using his usual greeting for the nurse who had taken up a permanent position in his and Reginald's shared practice.
"Doctor Todd," she nodded her greeting. Her hands smoothed out the blanket covering her lap.
"How are you feeling?" He asked.
"Like a failure," she responded honestly. "There's nothing left," she added. "I am okay. I don't need a doctor, if that's what Reginald thinks."
"And what about what I think?" Doctor Todd replied, eyeing the nurse who he increasingly regarded as a brilliant, albeit meddlesome, colleague.
"If you feel you must," Isobel gestured with her hand, "go ahead. You have my permission."
Doctor Todd examined his patient. He noted her winces as he pressed onto her abdomen. He finished and affirmed what she knew to be true. What they all knew to be true.
He had enough good grace not to voice it aloud.
Packing up his tools in his bag, Doctor Todd cast a glance back at Isobel. "I know how angry you must be," he began.
No, you don't. Isobel wanted to scream. You are not a woman! You have no idea how I feel. Anger does not even begin to describe it. I feel broken. I am broken. If I wasn't, surely, I could have…. She could not finish her thought. Instead, Isobel merely gestured for the doctor to continue with his sentiment.
"I usually make it a point not to get involved in the emotional aspects of medicine. In the war, emotion could cloud one's judgment, I felt. I could be wrong. I do not know. But…I will wade into the depths with this one, Nurse Crawley. I regard you and Reginald as family, and you know I have nothing but the deepest care for you both. So, I ask you this as a friend and as your doctor, please do not shut Reginald out. The man is ill with worthy. Do not shut the door on your husband." Doctor Todd brought his hand to the door knob. "That is all I will say on the manner." He exited the room and the house shortly thereafter.
Isobel had barely left her bed in the past three days. She locked the door, finding that she could not be near her husband. She had no desire to share the bed with him, not yet. She couldn't.
Reginald slept in the guest room for those nights. He tried to ensure that his wife was eating. He fixed her a bite of soup each night, placing the tray in front of their bedroom door. He quietly knocked and then left.
He would return to an empty tray awaiting outside the bedroom door.
More than anything, Reginald wanted his Isobel, his Iz, his wife to return to him. More than anything, he wanted to open that bedroom door. But he feared to see that look in her eyes again. That horrid glare. Those angry words. Get out.
After three days, he mustered up his courage and knocked on the door. "Iz, love."
Reginald's voice roused her from her thoughts. "Reg," she responded, searching for her compassion. "Come in…darling," she added as an afterthought.
He slowly opened the door and found his wife lying in bed. He walked over to her, wondering if he could hold her hand.
She patted the edge of the bed, and he sat down. A small smile formed at the corner of her mouth, and she gave his hand a squeeze. "I've missed you. Do you know that?"
"I was worried about you, love," he responded, thumbing the corners of her eyes to brush back a tear.
"Were you now?" She asked.
"Terribly so. You gave me quite a fright Isobel. I thought I had lost you, love," he choked back a sob he felt building.
"Lost me? How on earth could you ever lose me? I'm right here, Reg," she answered quietly as she placed the palm of her hand against his chest, over his heart.
"I know you are. And here," he moved her hand to his head to signify his mind. She raked her hand through his hair, and he relished her touch. He brought her hand to rest on his cheek. "I was worried about you Isobel," he repeated, "I love you."
"I love you too, Reg," she whispered. "Lay here with me a while."
He removed his shoes and brought two pillows to rest against the headboard. He got into bed beside her, and she moved to recline on his chest. His arms snaked around her instinctively.
She noticed where his hands rested – her stomach. And she felt that ache again, that dreadful emptiness. She placed her hands on top of his and relaxed against him. "I…I…wish…" she began.
He hushed her. "Shh, shh, Iz, don't say anything. It's all right. I love you, no matter what."
"Will you still?" She inquired. She had not meant to let her voice crack.
"Always," he responded, placing a kiss a top her honey-colored head. "Just don't worry me. Not again, love. Don't shut me out. I love you." It was all he could say. All he wanted her to hear. He loved her. Reginald loved Isobel. It was that simple.
"I love you," she echoed.
Present
"And you came out of it. You emerged from the shadows," Doctor Clarkson supplied, watching Isobel intently.
Her eyes returned to him. She had been staring straight ahead as she told the story. "I suppose I did. After all, we finally did have Matthew," she answered, a lingering sadness in her voice. "But, you see, you are not the first man who I have worried. Who I have driven mad with my own grief."
"I don't think you drove Doctor Crawley mad. You certainly have not driven me mad," Richard responded, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
"Not mad then," Isobel acknowledged, "perhaps that is the wrong word."
"It's love, Isobel," Richard said simply.
"Come again?" She cocked her head.
"Love. Reginald loved you. I love you. There is no other explanation for the worry, the care, the intense dread that something is wrong with you – that only you can assuage. Reginald wanted his wife to return to him. I want my Nurse Crawley – the woman I have confessed to love – I want her to return to me as well," Doctor Clarkson declared, meeting her eyes.
Isobel did not answer.
Instead, she decided to change the subject.
"I suppose Cousin Violet will be coming this morning," she said, glancing at the clock on the wall. It was the early hours of the morning; only a few hours of sleep remained.
"You can guarantee it," Doctor Clarkson replied, deciding not to push on the previous subject. "And that does me good."
"What does you good?"
"To hear you call the Dowager your cousin again. You had been calling the Crawleys by their formal titles. Don't think that has escaped their notice," Doctor Clarkson chuckled.
Isobel looked down, fidgeting with her hands. "I shouldn't have done. I feel dreadful about it now. They're still my family, that is, if they want me."
"The Dowager is here, is she not? She has laid claim to you as her sparring partner and her patient, whether you like it or not. She deems you to be in her charge. You are their family." Richard stood from his chair. A hand went to his mouth to stifle a yawn. "Apologies," he murmured.
She dismissed it with a wave. "So, I'm rather like a naughty child being disciplined by her governess, then."
"If you like," Richard grinned.
"I best get some rest if I am to have my wits about me later. I also need to prepare her something to eat, I gather." Isobel stood, running a hand through her hair that hand been let loose from its pins.
She felt no qualms about the two being in their night robes in front of one another. A fact that did not escape Richard's notice.
"I wouldn't trouble yourself," Richard replied, "you are still recovering after all."
"It's no trouble really. I am supposed to eat, yes? And I want to feel useful. May as well kills two birds with one stone." Isobel smiled at Richard as he moved to exit her room.
Her hand stopped him. She met his eyes. Bringing the other hand to rest on his jaw, she placed a gentle kiss to his cheek.
"Goodnight, Richard," she said softly. "And thank you."
"Anytime, Isobel, anytime," he replied, shutting the door behind him.
So ends another chapter, a difficult one to write, dealing with a hard topic. There's more on the way. I hope you will stick around. Anyways, thank you for all the reviews, follows, and favorites. I cherish them all. Leave me a review if you wish and let me know what you thought of this next bit. Thanks!