NOTE: If you're interested in a song that inspired this chapter, take a listen to "Blackberry Stone" by Laura Marling. Music always inspires some form of my writing. If you're ever interested in what song inspired a chapter, I usually have one.

Cora returned to Downton, searching for Robert to relay what she had just witnessed at Crawley House. She found him reading his paper in the small library. He stood from his seat when he saw how visibly upset the meeting had made her. He led her to the settee, placing his arms around her shoulders as he listened to her.

"Oh, Robert," Cora whimpered, "it was awful. So terribly ghastly," she said, sinking into his embrace.

"My dear, Cousin Isobel has just discovered the worst news she could possibly ever hear," Robert tried to be sensible. "Give her some time. She's so very strong, a match for Mama even, but she needs time. She will pull through this. We did, didn't we?" Robert asked, looking at Cora in the eyes and then pulling her close to kiss her lips.

Cora accepted his kiss, shuddering with the way he still made her feel. "Everyone keeps saying that she needs time," Cora replied. "I don't know about that. Robert, dear, you didn't see her this morning; I did. The Isobel Crawley that we recognize," she struggled to find the words, "I…I didn't see a trace of her there…not one trace. I'm so frightened for her." Cora shed some more tears. Losing her daughter and now son-in-law had left her feeling so terribly upset. Two young lives snatched for what appeared to be no reason at all.

"Cora, darling," Robert grabbed her hands gently, tracing her knuckles with his thumb, "Isobel only found out yesterday. Grief has only just touched her, but, I promise, she will make it." He tried to get Cora to accept his words. "She still has family, after all. You and I. Mary. Our newest little addition. Even Mama. Isobel has too much to live for. After all, who would give Mama trouble if not Cousin Isobel." He smiled, trying to lighten the mood.

"Robert, you just don't understand," Cora reiterated. "She doesn't think of us as family, not really anyways. She said just as much this morning." Cora stood from the settee, walking towards the door. "She even called me Lady Grantham, as if I wouldn't notice. To her, it seems unfortunately that we are still the people in the big house, not the Crawley family."

"Well," said Robert, "we'll just have to change her mind. Let her know that we are her family, in every way."

Before Cora left, she smiled at Robert. "You do know the right thing to say at times. I'm going to send the car around to fetch her. Matthew is ready for viewing."

"Are you going with her?" Robert asked.

"No," Cora answered. "She doesn't want anyone there. She wants to say goodbye privately. I can understand that."

"But," Robert stuttered, "I thought that you said that she should not be alone?" He seemed confused. Women are the most confounding of creatures, he thought to himself.

"Oh," Cora uttered, "she won't be. I'm phoning Doctor Clarkson now. She won't think a thing about it if he is at the funeral parlor. Doctors go there, don't they? It won't appear as though we are checking up on her." A tiny smile flashed across Cora's face. She was pleased with her plan, pleased that there would be more than one set of eyes keeping watch over Isobel Crawley.

…

Isobel finally got dressed that afternoon. She selected a black skirt and button down shirt, along with a black hat with a small veil, just enough to shield her eyes from any onlookers.

No amount of fixing her face would hide the redness of her eyes. She really didn't want to either. She thought she looked presentable enough to make her way to the funeral parlor.

To say goodbye. To her son. To her Matthew.

What was this feeling inside her, she wondered. This dreadful emptiness? She had known loss before. Her parents, Reginald, patients, old and young, but nothing ever prepared her for this. The unfairness of it all. Is that what I am struggling with? She thought to herself – that I am here, and my Matthew is not.

As she pinned back her hair to the best of her ability, her mind thought back to her conversation with Cora. She almost scoffed; she was so bitter, so jealous. She knew it was wrong, but still could not hide her feelings.

How can you possibly know how I feel? You still have part of your family, don't you? Your heart is still intact. Mine is gone. Mine is dead.

With her hair pulled flat back, Isobel heard the car pull up her drive. She made her way downstairs and out the door. The driver opened up the car door for her. To Isobel's surprise, no one was inside waiting for her. The Crawleys had not come. She breathed a sigh of relief.

At first, she hesitated getting into the car. After all, hadn't one of these contraptions just killed her son? But, then, she thought better of it. Let's not border on the ridiculous, old girl, she reminded herself. It is a car, nothing more. She got inside and stared out the window until she arrived at Graspey's. Her eyes remained lost, looking someplace further back in her memory the entire trip.

With shaking hands, she opened the door to the parlor. The funeral director met her and led her to the small, open chapel where the casket that contained her son laid. It was open.

"I'll give you some time alone," the director said, giving her a quick nod.

Isobel walked slowly up to the front of the room. Candles flickered around the chapel. It was all so terribly depressing, Isobel thought. She finally made it to the coffin and lowered her eyes to look down on Matthew. The accident did not show. It appeared as if only he were sleeping. It was some terrible dream they were both having, one that she just wished that Matthew would awaken.

"Oh, my boy," she sniffled. A hand flew to her mouth, and her shoulders shook.

"There is so much that I want to say to you. So much." She leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. She could not hold his hand; it would break her. She knew she would be on the floor if she touched his hand. Grief would overtake her.

"I hope you know how much I love you," she said through teary eyes and broken voice. "I love you so terribly, terribly much. If I could trade places with you, I would in an instant, my darling boy." She kissed his forehead once again. Her tears fell onto his cheek, and she wiped them away.

"I don't want to say goodbye," she whispered. "I love you, my Matthew," she said, stealing one last look at him; the casket would be closed before the funeral tomorrow. Mary could not look at him, could not bear to remember her husband lying there.

Isobel, for her part, needed to see him.

…

Dr. Clarkson stood at the entrance to the chapel, watching Isobel Crawley. Lady Grantham had phoned him to see if he could be there, just to ensure that Mrs. Crawley was not so terribly alone. He thought that her ladyship's feelings did her credit.

The scene that he saw unfold before him broke his heart. It was the second time in less than two days that he felt powerless, unable to say or do anything to help her. He wanted to walk right up to her and embrace her, hold her, let her crumble into his arms. If she was to break, he wanted to let her cry into his chest, let her find some comfort with him. He wanted all these things, yet said nothing. Nor, did he take any action. Why was he so afraid? Why could he not just tell her? Tell her that he loved her; he had always loved her. She saved him from embarrassment once at Thirsk, but she had never been far from his mind.

And now this tragedy had happened, and there was nothing he could do to ease her pain. He felt so utterly helpless.

As he saw her turn around to leave the chapel, he slunk back, not wanting her to know that he saw the final goodbye between mother and son. She was out of the chapel, and he walked into her, as if he casually bumped into anyone.

"Oh, Mrs. Crawley, I'm sorry," he muttered.

"Dr. Clarkson," Isobel was taken aback, "What are you doing…" then she stopped herself. She knew the answer to that question. He was a doctor after all, and physicians are no strangers to death. He probably had to see to someone, perhaps, even Matthew. With that thought, she teared up.

Doctor Clarkson produced a handkerchief, and she accepted it, dabbing at her eyes, hidden by the veil.

"Thank you," she stammered.

"Think nothing of it." Doctor Clarkson looked at the shaken woman before him – a shell of a woman she had been, just a few short days ago. It worried him; it worried everyone. Her eyes were not those of the Isobel Crawley that he knew.

She moved to leave the funeral parlor. "Mrs. Crawley," his words stopped her before she exited, "I do want you to know how sorry I am. If there is anything I can do, anyway at all that I can help, please let me know," Doctor Clarkson said somberly. Fool, he thought to himself, can you say something other than sorry?

I don't know what to say. Those words haunted him.

"No. There's nothing that you or anyone else can do," she whispered and then headed back to Crawley House. She did not get into the car; she felt as if she could use the walk.

She needed the air. She needed something to save her from those thoughts that plagued her mind. She needed rest. She needed sleep. She needed what every mother needed. She needed her child.

I want my Matthew back.

She made it back inside Crawley House just before she crumbled to the floor.

Alone.

Again.

Note: I'm not sure how many are Ever Decreasing Circles fans, but I am working on a relatively new story for that as well. Bouncing back and forth between three stories, I suppose, keeps the creative juices flowing. Anyways, let me know your thoughts.