It had been two weeks. Two weeks since she had watched her son being lowered into the earth.
She had ignored the well-meaning advice of Mrs. Hughes. She had not gone to the Abbey for luncheon, dinner, or any other reason. She had not held her grandson since the day he was born.
George, she thought about the baby's name. That's what Mary has called him. It's very kingly, so very like Mary to choose something regal. Isobel smiled in spite of herself.
Just because Isobel did not come to the Abbey did not mean that the Crawleys had not come to her. Oh, no. Lady Grantham and Lady Edith both thought they had an open invitation to Crawley House, pushing in whenever they deemed Isobel needed somebody to care. They would not simply leave her alone. They would not give up on her.
Lady Edith would tell Isobel how George had grown, how he so desired to see his grandmother, how so like Matthew he looked. That's when Lady Grantham would place a gentle hand on her middle child as if to stop her from getting carried away. Isobel appreciated the gesture, though she could not understand why.
I love my grandson, Isobel reminded herself. I do. But, it's so very, very hard to see him again. If I look into his face, will I see my Matthew? Can I handle that? Would I frighten the little chap if I break down? Surely, his grandmother should maintain some sense of composure. What would Mary think of me if I cannot be near her son?
She remained lost in thought for a bit; then Isobel looked out her bedroom window at her garden. It looked well-maintained. She figured the Crawleys had made arrangements with her gardener even though Isobel had dismissed her small staff.
Isobel went downstairs to make herself a cup of tea. It was about all she could manage these days - piping hot tea.
She decided to skip breakfast as she had been doing for the past two weeks. Regular meals no longer appealed to her. Nothing tasted quite the same. Of course, she nibbled on a cake when the Crawley women made an appearance, but that was more for show so no questions would be asked. However, it was not difficult to see that she had lost weight. Her hip bones protruded more than they normally would, and her face appeared somewhat gaunt. Another effect of grief.
Isobel knew that one day she would have to regain her appetite. For now, she settled on tea.
It had been two weeks.
She had not returned to the hospital for any reason, not to serve as a nurse and not to return to work on her training material.
Who was she to save people when she couldn't save her son?
You're being silly, Isobel Crawley, she told herself. It was a car crash; there was nothing you could do. But, still, she could not shake that feeling of guilt.
She had not found a new cause as Mrs. Hughes had advised she should. She had yet to hear from the Dowager. Isobel figured Violet would remain distant for some time.
As she took her tea, she went through her post. There was a letter from Doctor Clarkson. She brought a hand to her chin. What could he possibly want? She used the letter-opener and sliced it open, figuring it was his way to invite her back to work. Her suspicions were not wrong.
The letter read:
Dear Mrs. Crawley,
We at the Village Hospital request that you consider returning to your duties here. The staff sends you their sincere sympathy regarding your loss of Mr. Matthew. He will be missed. The hospital could use your aid as we have been recently short-staffed. We hope that you will please come back to work.
Sincerely,
Doctor Richard Clarkson
If the hospital is in so desperate need of my help, Isobel scoffed, why doesn't he ask me personally? She placed the letter at the bottom of the mail stack. She would not answer it. She could not return to the hospital; somehow, she feared, it would bring it all back.
…
Once again, the sound of the doorbell disrupted her morning. I am going to have to get that thing removed if I am ever going to get any peace, she thought to herself.
She answered the door, and there stood Mr. Molesley, hat in hand, looking rather sheepish.
"Yes," Isobel answered, "what can I do for you Mr. Molesley? I was not expecting you."
"Oh, umm…well, you see," Mr. Molesley stammered, fumbling with his cap, "it's more about what I can do for you, ma'am. I do not want to seem indelicate, but I am no longer employed for obvious reasons." He tried to meet her eyes then continued, "Would you require a butler again? We could return to the way it used to be when you first arrived at Downton. I only want to help you, make things easier if I can." He looked at her hopefully, but something about her appearance unnerved him. She hasn't been eating, he thought to himself. Her eyes seem so empty, like all the joy has been snatched from them.
Something about his comment struck a nerve with Isobel. "It can never be like it was," she retorted.
Mr. Molesley was stunned by her sharp words. He expected a swift rejoinder or harsh response from someone like the Dowager, but never from Mrs. Crawley.
Isobel noticed his shocked expression and then softened, "I'm sorry; I didn't mean it like that." She sighed. "I only meant to say that I no longer live like I once did. I no longer require a butler." Mr. Molesley began to walk away, but turned around when she spoke again. "And Mr. Molesley, I do hope you find something. I really do."
"Thank you, ma'am," he said as he placed his hat back on his head.
Mr. Molesley determined that he had to tell someone about the figure he just saw. She worried him, and it would not do for him to leave it alone. If he could help, he would. He knew who he thought could assist – Mrs. Hughes.
Mr. Molesley returned to the Abbey and went round the back of the estate, through the servants' entrance. He found Mrs. Hughes in her sitting room and tapped at her door.
"Mrs. Hughes, may I have a word?"
"Mr. Molesley," Mrs. Hughes smiled, "what are you doing here? Of course, come in." She motioned for him to take a seat.
"You see, Mrs. Hughes, you know that I am unemployed." Mrs. Hughes nodded. "And, well, I tried to ask Mrs. Crawley for my old job back as butler, you see." Mrs. Hughes raised an eyebrow, knowing where this conversation was headed.
"And she said no," Mrs. Hughes supplied. "I'm not surprised."
"You guessed it. I probably shouldn't have asked at the time I did; I understand that," Mr. Molesley answered. "But, that's not really why I came to talk to you. You see, Mrs. Crawley was so unlike herself. I know Mr. Matthew's death has devastated her, but she looked…she looked…unwell, if you catch my meaning." He searched for the words.
"I think I do."
"Right," Mr. Molesley continued. "I know this may seem improper, tactless, rude even, to notice a woman's weight." Mrs. Hughes almost grinned at the former valet's struggle to tell her about Mrs. Crawley's appearance; she knew his heart was in the right place. "But, she looked as if she dropped a stone. I'm worried about her; I used to work for her after all, and I still care."
"I know you do, Mr. Molesley." She patted his hand. "I have been fretting about her myself. I went to go see her after the funeral, you know, for the family and myself, really. She did not want to hear my advice."
"Is there anything we can do at all?" Mr. Molesley asked, searching the housekeeper's face for an answer.
"Perhaps, not, but I know someone who can," Mrs. Hughes replied, an idea forming at the back of her mind. "I will speak with the Dowager, the Lord help me. Perhaps, she can get through to Mrs. Crawley."
…
It was not often that Mrs. Hughes visited the Dower House. In most cases, she tried to avoid it, but this situation called for the strongest of wills.
The butler showed her into the sitting room, and she waited patiently for the Dowager to appear. A swift rap of her cane on the floor, and Lady Violet's presence was made known.
"Mrs. Hughes," Violet began, "it is not often that you come to the Dower House. To what do I owe this visit? It's certainly not a social call; you seem very serious." Violet peered at Mrs. Hughes, noticing the housekeeper's saddened expression.
"No, your ladyship, it is not." Mrs. Hughes wondered where to begin and how much the Dowager already knew. "You see, it's Mrs. Crawley, ma'am. I am concerned for her wellbeing."
"As am I."
"She has not visited Downton in over two weeks. She has not seen young Master George, and, when Mr. Molesley went to Crawley House, he was deeply disturbed," explained Mrs. Hughes.
The Dowager made her way to a chair and sat down. "Disturbed how?" she inquired.
"Well, to put no finer point on it, he was concerned that she was not eating. He noticed that she lost some weight. He, and I do as well, and Lady Grantham, everyone really, fear that this grief has taken hold of her. That she cannot seem to find a way out." Mrs. Hughes wondered what the Dowager may say. If Lady Violet was anything, she was forthright in her opinion.
Violet was silent for a bit, and the housekeeper questioned whether or not she had spoken out of turn.
"Well, if Mr. Molesley noticed her appearance then it must be serious," Violet mentioned offhandedly. "I have long thought Isobel a pillar – so obnoxiously good and so very strong willed – that I never really considered that she may break. As you know Mrs. Hughes, I do not speak of affairs of the heart often, but I can recognize when it has been crushed, when it may need mending. I will do what I can to help her."
Mrs. Hughes breathed a sigh of relief, feeling that the Dowager would not let Mrs. Crawley fade.
"I have grown rather fond of her meddling ways," Lady Violet scoffed, "but don't let her know that."
"Your secret is safe with me, ma'am," Mrs. Hughes smiled. "If I may ask, what do you plan to do?"
"Phone Doctor Clarkson, of course." Violet tapped her cane on the floor – the pronouncement final.
"Doctor Clarkson?" Mrs. Hughes asked, not quite understanding what the Dowager had in mind.
"Yes, Doctor Clarkson," Violet announced.