Isobel sat across from the Dowager, sipping her tea and wondering how much she should reveal to Violet -if anything at all.
"So," Violet let out a small cough, "I'm curious as to what that was that happened at dinner the other night."
Isobel raised an eyebrow. "I bet you are," she replied, a bit more snarky than usual.
"Well, don't leave me in suspense," Violet replied as she munched on a scone. "You know Lord Merton - how?"
Isobel let out a breath. "It was a long time ago…"
"So, the saint has a past," Violet snickered.
Isobel shot her a look and then laughed; she knew her cousin was relatively harmless - relatively being the operative word.
"Nothing sordid, I assure you," Isobel chuckled. "I knew Dickie before he reigned over Cavenham - before I married Reginald. He was a nice man…"
"A nice man," Violet pressed, "come now, there must be more to it than that."
Isobel looked out the window - remembering the young woman she used to be. "There isn't really…" Isobel said softly. "I married Reginald and that was that."
"Ahhh…now you have told me everything." Violet smiled.
Isobel rolled her eyes. "What? What could I have possibly told you?"
"That there could have been more," Violet replied, bringing her teacup to her lips.
"I don't think so," Isobel answered. "I haven't seen Dickie since my engagement party to Reginald. I was barely over twenty-two at the time." Her hands smoothed the wrinkles of her dress - no longer the nimble fingers of her youth.
"Well, he certainly remembers you," Violet chortled. "I have never seen that look in his eyes before. Utterly stricken."
"Oh, do stop," Isobel demanded.
"No," Violet continued, "he remembered you, just as you remembered him. So…what were you to each other?" The Dowager's curiosity piqued.
"Nothing…just friends," Isobel replied.
"And you haven't seen him since your engagement party?"
"No. It's been ages," Isobel said, a finger tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She poured herself another cup of tea, gesturing to her cousin for another.
Violet waved her hand no. "How did you two know each other?"
"My father saved his father's life. I was a nurse in training at the time, and I met Lord Merton at the hospital," Isobel recounted the story. "We were friends…just good friends."
"Nothing more?" Violet raised an eyebrow, demanding for more to the story.
"No," Isobel affirmed, glowering at her cousin.
"So…if you were such good friends, why haven't you seen him since your marriage to Reginald. That's at least over forty years ago," Violet wondered aloud.
"Don't remind me," Isobel laughed. "It's been such a very long time. Lord Merton came to my engagement party, gave me a gift, and I never saw him afterwards. I assumed he just became very busy at Cavenham and his own life."
"Seems odd though," Violet looked at her cousin. "To never speak to you after your marriage…if you were such good friends, as you say."
"Not particularly," Isobel answered back. "We were from different classes, different roles, different worlds, really. After all, are you close friends with Doctor Clarkson or any of the nurses at the Village Hospital?"
Violet chuckled. "Perhaps…I certainly have a controlling interest in what goes on at the hospital…so it behooves Doctor Clarkson to remain friends with me."
"That's not what I meant, and you know it," Isobel replied.
"Very well," the Dowager answered. "Yes, I understand. And I imagine that Dickie had become involved with Ada as well."
"I wouldn't have known," Isobel admitted.
"You did say he gave you an engagement present…" Violet wondered aloud. "What was it, if I am not prying too much?"
"Not at all," Isobel replied kindly, dismissing Violet's meddlesome, albeit well-meaning manner. "A mantle," she answered.
"A mantle…as in a cloak?" Violet gave her cousin a puzzled look. "Odd that…"
"Yes," Isobel admitted, "it was a bit strange."
"Any reason for it?" Violet asked.
"None that I can remember," Isobel lied.
You always remind me of one of those romantic heroines. His words still echoed in her mind. She had never forgotten them.
"Do you still have it?"
"No," Isobel lied again. "I must have donated it long ago." Certainly, she would never tell the Dowager that it still hung in the back of her wardrobe.
"Very well," Violet dismissed the subject. "Any plans for this afternoon?"
"I have a fitting at the dress shop for Matthew's wedding later," Isobel smiled, pleased to think of such pleasant news as her son's upcoming nuptials.
…
1899 Mafeking, South Africa
He is wounded. His left arm feels as if it just hangs there from his shoulder - dead weight and searing pain. He wonders if he can stitch himself back together, remove the bullet from his shoulder, bite down on a glove, and attempt to close the hole.
He doesn't think he has that sort of dexterity though. In fact, he knows he doesn't.
And despite the pain that he feels, all that he can think about is his wife Isobel and his fourteen-year-old son, Matthew.
He is bleeding profusely, and, as a doctor, he knows that if he does not get aid soon - if he cannot stop the flow of his own blood, he will die.
Reginald Crawley knows all of this.
And yet he is struggling to remain conscious.
He knows he has to get back behind the lines - retreat is necessary and dire. He knows that they have lost this one - their enemy is too many and too fierce.
He knows that to see his Isobel again he must keep moving.
And move…he struggles to do so.
He sees his camp ahead…and then sees no more.
It was not until a few days later that Reginald regained consciousness. He awakened in a tent. His shoulder wrapped tightly with gauze. He cannot remember the last time he had a headache this bad, nor can he recall being this cold.
He shivered, attempting to pull the blanket closer to him.
He knows it…in the back of his mind…he knows his symptoms.
Infection has set in, and he wonders if he is strong enough to survive.
It was not supposed to be this way. He went to South Africa to heal those soldiers…not to become one of the injured.
But war claims victims…even those who had the best of intentions.
He attempts to raise himself up to take a look around at this hospital tent but is too weak to muster any strength.
"Good," breathes a familiar voice, "you're awake."
Reginald shakes his head. He barely believes who he is hearing…much less that the same person is at his camp in South Africa.
Perhaps, he is dreaming.
But, stranger things have happened.
"Another doctor here sewed you up," the man muttered as he poured Reginald a glass of water. "Luckily, he was able to get the bleeding to stop."
Reginald let out a breath. "But there's infection," he murmured weakly. "I feel it."
"Here," said the man as he helped Reginald to scooch up on the pillow, "try to drink this."
"Thank you," Reginald spluttered as he brought the water to his parched lips. "I didn't imagine I'd ever see someone I know here."
"Nor did I," replied the man.
"Richard Grey…" Reginald said his name. "It has been a long time."
"Yes," replied Dickie, "not since your engagement party."
"War affects us all it would seem," Reginald answered. "Even the uppers," he added.
Dickie chuckled, "I couldn't just stay at Cavenham…wouldn't quite seem right to me." He helped Reginald back down onto his pillow as the doctor let out a fit of coughs. "I should fetch a doctor," he said.
"Leave it a moment…" Reginald spluttered, a hand trying to choke back his coughs. He was burning up - his cheeks on fire - his brow glistened with sweat.
"But…"
"I'm not sure if I have much time left," the doctor murmured. "And…it must be some sort of sign that you're here." Reginald closed his eyes for a minute.
Dickie watched the man struggle, hoping that he would not watch another die. "You have plenty of time left," Dickie tried to reassure him.
"Please…if I don't come home…" he took a breath, "you must promise me that you'll look after Isobel and my son." Reginald thought only of his family - of that soft, yet fiery wife of his - of that rambunctious boy that bore so much resemblance to himself.
"You'll look after them yourself," Dickie said - shocked at Reginald's words. Isobel. He had never forgotten about her. Isobel. In truth, he had never stopped loving her.
"But if I don't come back…if I can't…" Reginald pleaded with the man. "Please…for me." He looked at Dickie knowingly. Something in the doctor's eyes understood. Something in the doctor's eyes saw what Richard tried to hide. "I know you've always been fond of Isobel. And I can't bear to think of her being alone."
Dickie tried to ignore that look in Reginald's eye. "She won't be alone; you're going to go back to her."
"Promise me," Reginald said solemnly, "that you will take care of her, please."
"Very well, I promise," Dickie swore. "Now, let me go get a doctor."
"And Richard," Reginald added as the man headed out of the tent, "she's always kept that engagement present…that mantle."
Dickie nodded and left.
…
Isobel sat in her bedroom that evening. It had been a busy day - afternoon tea with Violet, a dress fitting, and a stop at the hospital just to ensure she wasn't needed.
She was content now to sit in her sky blue dressing gown and read a book.
As she grabbed her book off her nightstand, she glanced at the photograph of Reginald in his uniform that rested there ever since he had left for that war so long ago.
She missed him. With every fiber of her being, she missed that man. He had come home from war, albeit with a shoulder that never fully recovered. It gave him trouble until the day he died when Matthew was only fourteen.
She had been alone ever since.
Love. A great love.
She had known it, and she had lost it.
And that was all there was.
But then…seeing Lord Merton…seemed so strange. Like a bolt from the blue. A ghost of the past - of things she had long thought buried.
She wondered what he thought of her now after all this time.
Probably not much…if at all, she mused to herself. Just an old face.
A knock at the door summoned her from her thoughts.
"Mother?"
"Come in, Matthew," she said - her eyes still fixed on her husband's image.
"I've come to say goodnight." He walked over to his mother and sat beside her on the bed.
"Goodnight, love." Isobel placed a swift peck on her son's cheek.
"What are you thinking about, Mother?" Matthew looked at his mother. No matter how old he got - he would always need her. He could read her like a book. He knew something was on her mind.
"Matthew," she began softly.
"What Mother?"
"You are in for a wonderful ride," she said, placing a hand under her son's chin, raising his head to meet her eyes.
"Am I?" A crooked smile formed on his lips.
"It's a marvelous thing - marriage." Isobel smiled, stroking her son's hair. "It is a beautiful thing to know a great love."
"I love Mary," he said.
"I know you do," his mother replied. She looked into her son's eyes. "You look so like your father," she sighed. "He was a great man, Matthew." Her eyes returned to her husband's photo.
"I miss him too, Mother."
"He would be so proud of you," Isobel affirmed, blotting a tear that threatened to form at her eye. She gave Matthew's hand a squeeze. "I wish he could be here for your wedding. Just to come back for one day, but that's selfish of me, I suppose."
"You would never want him to leave, if he did," Matthew noted, bringing his arm around her shoulders, holding her a moment.
"No," Isobel nodded. "I wouldn't."
"One is lucky to find love," Matthew mused aloud. "And if one is fortunate enough to ever come across it in life - grab it, hold on to it, never let it go."
"How did you become so wise?" Isobel laughed.
"Not wise, Mother, just in love," her son replied.
"I shall miss our nights like this when you move into the big house," Isobel said softly.
"Me too, Mother, me too," Matthew replied. "Well, I'm off to bed for the night." He placed another kiss on his mother's cheek and closed the door behind him.
"Sleep well," she called after her son.
Isobel wrapped her dressing gown around herself tightly - missing the warmth of her son. A smart boy, I mean, man, she thought to herself. He'll never let go of his love.
Her mind thought back to her engagement party. Seeing Dickie Merton again earlier in the week brought back so many memories.
She always wondered what became of him. She always wondered what he had meant that day of her engagement party.
You know why. That's what he said to her
You're speaking in riddles. She never did understand his decision…or did she? She could not make up her mind.
She opened her wardrobe and moved the other clothes aside. Her hands felt the crushed velvet - as smooth and as soft as the day he had first given it to her.
The mantle.
She pulled it out and smoothed her hands over the hood.
And what if remained in her mind.
Hello! My dear readers, it has been a long time since I updated this story. I have no excuse other than, hey, life. Haha! Anyway, I really hope you enjoy this chapter, and I plan on writing more. At the very least, I have outlined more. As always, leave me a review and let me know what you think. Or you can always catch me on tumblr too. Merry Christmas!