DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything having to do with Downton Abbey. I am merely expressing my admiration for the show and having some fun writing.
NOTE: Have your handkerchiefs ready. I'm back. Thank you to those who encouraged me to get back on the horse and keep riding.
Isobel Crawley sat in the private hospital room, gently cradling her newborn grandson in her arms. She had been so pleased to be a participant in his birth. He was tiny and very handsome. He looked so like Matthew.
Mary had just fallen asleep, exhausted but overjoyed at providing an heir for the estate. With this little boy, the future of Downton was secure. For her part, Isobel did not care if this little chap grew up to become a lord of a great estate or wanted to go to Paris to become a painter or took up medicine like his grandfather. Whatever he wanted to be, Isobel would be there, supporting him in any endeavor.
Her first grandchild; Isobel marveled at the idea. Maybe one day she would have a granddaughter too, a little blonde girl who would be the apple of her father's eye. Dear Matthew, Isobel thought, he was so excited at becoming a father. I am so happy for him. Matthew had kissed his mother on the cheek and then left, taking his motor to Downton to announce the arrival of his son.
Isobel smiled at the memory. In another hour, the hospital would be full with the entire Crawley family welcoming the newest heir, but, for now, she savored this moment alone with her grandson. As the little chap drifted off to sleep, Isobel placed him in the small basinet at his mother's bedside.
She then went into Doctor Clarkson's office to return to some paperwork, a training project she had been compiling for the nurses. About an hour later, Isobel noticed the hospital ambulance pull up out of the corner of her eye. Unfortunately, what she saw was not a pleasant sight. A few police officers and nurses removed what was obviously a body bag out of the back of the car. Isobel shuddered, feeling sorry for whoever would hear the news that their loved one had passed. She thought about birth and death. Although Isobel was not a particularly religious woman, she thought that it must be some planned idea of balance. One life brought into the world, and another's whose time was done. She returned to her efforts, not giving the sight a second thought.
A knock on the door interrupted her work. "Come in," she said. "Oh, Doctor Clarkson," Isobel started to get up, "hold on. I've rather taken up your office. I'll be right out of your way in just a moment." She began picking up her papers and pushing in the desk chair, getting ready to leave and allow the doctor free use of his workspace.
"Mrs. Crawley," he began, his eyes filled with sorrow. He shut the door so they could talk in private. He never wanted to inflict such pain on this woman. He wished it was someone else who had to deliver this news to her. He wished that none of this had happened.
"Doctor Clarkson," Isobel noted his expression, "what is it? You look like someone has walked over your grave." For her part in this moment, Isobel still looked like the delighted new grandmother, her radiant smile beamed until Doctor Clarkson spoke his next words.
"I'm sorry to be the one who has to bring you this news. But, Matthew Crawley was killed in a car accident this afternoon." He spoke the words quickly, as if ripping off the bandage with one quick tug could soothe the blow. "I'm sorry, but your son is dead."
At first, she did not process what he had been saying. Her eyes scrunched up, as if confused as to what the Doctor relayed. But, then, a hand flew to her mouth, and tears pooled at her eyes.
"No," she whispered; it was almost inaudible.
Doctor Clarkson cautiously approached her, but she held up a hand to keep him away. "Mrs. Crawley," he began, "Isobel, please let me help you." Doctor Clarkson worried he would see this woman that he had come to regard as a tower of strength crumble in an instant. She had yet to cry, scream, fall to the floor, do anything really, and it terrified him.
"Was...was that my Matthew who they brought in?" Isobel started, motioning out the window at the ambulance. "Tell me that was not my son." She searched Doctor Clarkson's face for any sign, any trace that he had gotten it wrong, that her baby was not dead, that her world did not just shatter.
She had seen them bring in the body; Doctor Clarkson thought and then winced. Of course, she had seen it; she misses nothing. She is a keen observer. How I wish I could tell her no. "Yes," Richard uttered without a trace of doubt, "that was his body." He moved to put his hand at her back to guide her to a chair, but she pulled away. "I am so sorry, Mrs. Crawley, so very sorry."
Was that all he could say? Isobel wanted to scream. My son is dead, and all you can say is you are sorry. She choked back a sob and rung her hands through her hair. She did not care what it would look like, if the pins fell out, if her hair tumbled down to her shoulders. She did not care. What did it matter? What did any of it matter anymore?
"Can…can I see him?" She questioned as she paced the room. "Please," she begged, "let me see my son. At the very least so I know that this is real. So I know that this isn't some terrible lie." Her eyes pleaded; tears threatened to spill at any moment.
"I'm sorry Mrs. Crawley, not at the moment. You don't want to see him right now. Please let them prepare him," Dr. Clarkson uttered, but his voice broke. He could not take seeing her like this.
"Very well," Isobel replied, almost giving up. Her posture stiffened and her voice quavered as she continued. "I cannot stay here. I have to go. I cannot be in this place," she gestured around the room and to the hospital in general.
She brushed past Doctor Clarkson, and the office door slammed loudly behind her.
All eyes in the hospital turned to the dreadful sight of Isobel Crawley. By now, everyone had guessed what happened; news travelled fast at Downton.
The nurses stared at their beloved teacher and mentor. She was so utterly broken. Her hair had become unpinned from her fidgeting with it, sticking out at all ends. Half up and half down. Her eyes were bloodshot, but no tears had fallen. She kept blinking and rubbing to keep them back. It was as if time stood still as everyone stared at the bereft woman. Her eyes darted from here to there, searching for something until she landed upon it: her coat, hanging on the stand that sat in the corner of the hospital's entrance.
She quickly walked over to it and put it on over her shoulders. Without another word, she exited the door.
"Poor Mrs. Crawley," a nurse spoke up. Doctor Clarkson had just emerged from his office. "Will she be okay, Doctor Clarkson?" she asked the good doctor.
"I don't know, my dear," he replied sincerely. "I just don't know." Go after her, you old fool, he told himself. Do something, do anything to help her. Instead, he remained where he was. "Lord and Lady Grantham will arrive at any time. I must see to Lady Mary and the baby and help prepare Mr. Matthew," he told the nurse quietly. What else could he do?
Isobel made it back to Crawley House in record time. Her feet could not carry her fast enough. She practically sprinted, something she had not done in such a very long time. Not since Matthew was a child and she chased him through the house in Manchester.
"Oh, Mrs. Crawley," her maid said as Isobel made it inside her door. "I didn't expect you back so soon. How's the baby?" Her maid asked sweetly, knowing that her employer was over-the-moon about becoming a grandmother for the first time.
"You are dismissed. You and the rest of my staff will please leave for the rest of the week, perhaps longer," Isobel announced, her head snapping up from looking down at the floor.
"Mrs. Crawley surely you…" the maid started, not quite sure what her employer was saying and totally unaware of what had transpired at the hospital.
"Will you please get out," Isobel's voice was ice. The maid did not need to be told twice. She informed the rest of the staff, and they all left for the evening without another word from Mrs. Crawley.
Isobel paced from room to room. She went into her sitting room, glancing at the floral arrangement she had just finished for the table's centerpiece. She always liked working with flowers; their colors, their vibrancy, gave her a feeling of joy. They were beautiful and so alive. Yet, her son was dead, and Isobel was so, so angry. She picked up the large vase, filled with water and flowers. With all her might, she threw it against the wall. It shattered; hundreds of pieces of glass lay scattered on the floor interspersed with flowers missing their petals.
Isobel let out a huff and then left the room, hurrying up the stairs to what had been Matthew's room before he moved to the Abbey. She opened up his wardrobe, but his clothes were no longer there. He, of course, had been living at the Abbey. She rummaged through his drawers, but there was no trace of her son.
She finally sank down onto the bed, curling up into a ball. That's when the tears fell. Gut-wrenching sobs that she could no longer control released from someplace deep down within her. She had never known this kind of pain. Her eyes could not stop crying, and she drew ragged breaths. Every fiber within her screamed in sorrow.
Mothers should not have to bury their children. Mothers are supposed to protect their children. Mothers are always supposed to be there. Why wasn't she there for him? Why wasn't she with him? Then, she thought that first dreadful consideration: you are no longer a mother, are you?
She laid there on his old bed for hours, then, she slowly got up to head to her room. She didn't know what time it was, not like any of that mattered anymore really. She went into her bedroom and changed for the night. Who cared what time it was?
She sunk down into her reading chair in the corner of the room, wondering who she was anymore if not Matthew's mother. Her mind reeled, and tears continued to fall. Where is my Matthew? Where is my Matthew? He should be home by now; her thoughts no longer seemed coherent. Then, she remembered: he is never coming home. She let out a wail, sinking onto the floor, clutching her nightgown and balling the hem into her fists. It's not fair. It should be me. The words repeated: he is never coming home, and I am alone.