I feel a bit halloweenisch these days and I thought I write some Downton Abbey fanfic to get it out of system. It's been a while since I've written for this fandom, so please forgive me for messing up the timeline, created by Julian Fellowes. This story is a loose sequel for my one-shot "Moment of Truth". Perhaps you should give it a look, if you can't follow my storyline in this one. Anyway, enjoy yourself and as always: let me know what you think!

Ghosts and Shadows

"Listen to them — the children of the night. What music they make!" - Bram Stoker

Chapter 1

Fall was coming to Downton. The days became shorter, the wind was howling around the house, and the rain hit the shutters. The clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven times. Isobel Crawley looked up and closed the novel she had been reading for the last couple of hours and shievered. "Dracula" by Bram Stoker was not exactly what she called a comforting read, but she couldn't put it down either. An old friend from Manchester had sent her the book for her birthday and it had taken her a couple of months before she had finally picked it up. The story fascinated and disgusted her at the same time. It touched delicate elements she didn't want to think about while she was alone in her drawing room in the middle of the night and yet she couldn't stop wondering about them.

The fire had slowly died, the room was cold and the lamp flickered. Isobel was used to being alone. She had grown used to it, even welcomed it to be her own master - yet tonight she wished she had someone to share her thoughts about the novel with. She wanted to know if her perception of certain scenes was… legit…

Should she feel… disturbed as well as aroused by the idea of three females yearning for one man? She shook her head, scolding herself for her thoughts. Probably she shouldn't ask the Dowager - or anyone else - about their opinion on the matter. She could do without the ridicule of Violet Crawley or - God forbid - Doctor Clarkson. Perhaps she was just overtired and read too much between the lines.

Outside the wind howled louder than ever. She rose and shivered once more. Fall had arrived ghastly early this year, but tonight was particularly ugly. In two days November would arrive - the darkest month of all. She wrapped a blanket around her shoulders and switched off the lights. Armed with her small oil lamp she made her way upstairs. In the middle of the staircase she stopped and listened. Did she hear a knock at her front door? She most certainly did. The sound was eager, almost desperate. Usually she wouldn't hesitate to open the door, but tonight was different. Her spooky reading material made her wary.

Who was out on the street in this weather and this time of night? Surely only an emergency could have brought this on. Maybe it was someone from the hospital to fetch her. Maybe someone was at her door and needed help and she just stood there, frozen by some stupid novel. Telling herself not to be such a coward, she straightened her shoulders and went downstairs. When she opened the door a cold, wet breeze greeted her. The man in the dark coat and the top hat in his hand, had turned his back to her, as if he had already given up hope she could open the door for him. She would recognize his features anywhere on earth. Too often she had opened her front door for him, too often she had regretted when he had taken his leave. Too often she had missed him during the last couple of months.

"Dickie!" Surprised, he swirled around. "What on earth are you doing here?" She wondered and grabbed the wet fabric of his woolen coat and pulled him inside.

"Thank goodness! I thought you had already gone to bed." Grateful she had answered the door he gave her a warm smile.

"What is it?" She asked once more while she curiously studied his formal attire. Underneath his drenched coat he was in white tie.

"I have to apologize for my late entry, but my car has broken down on the crossroads. Could I use your telephone?"

"Of course! But where's your driver?"

"He stayed by the car and tries to find out what's wrong. I told him it's a useless undertaking, but he wasn't listening to me."

Dickie Merton was probably the only aristocrat in the whole of England who couldn't give an order to a servant without ending up doing the task himself. She couldn't hide her amusement and pointed at the telephone at the other end of the hallway. "Be my guest."

"Thank you! I'll be gone in a minute." He turned, looking for a place to leave his top hat. She offered her empty hand. "Thank you!" He repeated and cleared his throat.

Since she didn't want to pry on him, she turned away while he was telephoning Cavenham Park. She thought of the big, draughty house at the other end of the county that she hated with every fibre of her being. Dickie had often told her how much he disliked the house himself. It harboured not only Larry Grey, Dickie's son, but also ghastly memories of the ill-fated marriage of Dickie and his late wife Ada. One of the reasons why she had broken off her engagement to him had been the idea to live under the same roof as his son and the ever present ghost of his wife. A woman Violet could tell the most infamous stories about.

Once he had finished the call, Dickie returned to Isobel. "They will pick me up as soon as possible," he explained and took back his top hat. "I'm going to wait outside."

"But it's pouring down outside! You cannot be serious!" She shook her head and before he could argue with her, she opened the door to her drawing room. "I'm afraid the fire's already dead, but at least it's dry in here!"

He hesitated, but her glare gave him no choice. "I don't want to disturb you."

"Don't you worry about that."

She demanded his wet coat and moments later he was sitting in his favourite chair and it felt like old times. Only that he had never been at her house at this time of night.

"Can I get you a drink?" She asked, hoping he would accept, which would give her something to do while they were waiting.

"Perhaps better not," he said.

A little disappointed, she sank on the sofa near the window. "So… where have you been tonight?" She pointed at his glorious outfit. "Some fancy dinner party?"

"No… actually not." He clenched his jaws. Did he blush? In the soft light of the lamp she couldn't be sure, but when he spoke again, she heard a hint of embarrassment in his voice. "I had dinner with Lady Shackleton."

"I see." She felt how the blood was drained out of her cheeks. Lady Shackleton was the very last person she wanted to hear about. Ever since Dickie had told her about his former liaison with Prudence Shackleton on Mary and Henry's wedding day, she had made sure to avoid her and she hated to think Dickie spent time in her company.

"It was only dinner," he explained when he saw her facial expression.

"Of course, it was only dinner," she returned, a little snappier than intended, "Because otherwise you wouldn't be here."

"No, indeed, I wouldn't."

For over a minute neither of them spoke, but the storm outside couldn't cover the deafening silence between them. In the end it was Dickie who couldn't stand the atmosphere any longer. He sat up and said, "I shouldn't have come here. I'm sorry."

"Stay, please," she said, although she knew he was right. "I shouldn't have asked. It's none of my business."

A bit reluctant he sank back in his armchair. To keep his hands occupied he picked up the novel she had left on the small table. "Stoker," he crooked his eyebrow and gave her an amused glance. "Do you like it?"

"I'm not sure," she shrugged. "I haven't got very far." She thought of the three female vampires and prayed her face wouldn't give her earlier visions away, but his eyes had settled upon her and she felt how the blood returned to her cheeks.

"I've read it some years ago and what I remember about it is quite…" He looked straight into her eyes and added, "Peculiar."

"May I ask why?" She asked without breaking the connection between them.

"Ask me again after you've finished it. I don't want to spoil it for you." Unable to hold the eye contact between them without losing her composure, she lowered her eyelashes. She wondered if his answer was the coward's way out, because the contents of the novel was too juicy to talk it over with his former fiancé.

"A friend of mine gave it to me with the advice to read it more like a love story than anything else."

"Was that friend a man or a woman?" He wondered.

"It was a woman. Why?"

"Because, I guess, men and women have different perceptions on the matter."

"I guess they have," she answered and wished she had hidden the novel in some drawer. Annoyed with herself - and him - she added, "I wonder if you've given a copy to your precious Lady Shackelton. Of course, just to hear her perception of the matter."

For a reason she couldn't fathom her words amused him. "I didn't. For one she isn't a vivid lover of literature and second…"

"And second?"

"I'm not sure it would meet her idea of…"

She watched him curiously while he was searching for the right way to phrase his thoughts. "Her idea of the course of eternal love."

"So, if she isn't a vivid lover… of literature what did the two of you talk about?" She truly wondered, because Dickie spent a great deal of his time reading. He wasn't particularly interested in hunting and she couldn't imagine that Prudence Shackleton cared much for medical subjects.

He shrugged. "Well, we happen to know the same people."

She snorted, "I never took you for someone who's interested in idle gossip."

"And what am I in your eyes?" He asked and this time, it was him who sounded snarky. She swallowed when his eyes found hers again and silently told her the time to mock him was over.

"Well-read, eloquent, caring…", she answered in a low voice. All the things Prudence isn't, she added silently.

"You know, you don't do her justice, when you think she's nothing more than a well-bred cloth-stand."

"Well, I'm not sure what she is."

"I don't understand you." His shoulders had slumped forward and suddenly he appeared to be worn out. "What do you expect me to do? Do you want me to sit around at home, waiting for you to write? Or to call on me? I admit that's what I've been doing for the last couple of months. Everyone told me that sooner or later you would come round and change your mind regarding our engagement, but nothing of the sort happened. So, please in God's name, tell me what to do!"

"I don't ask you to… wait for me. I don't want you to sit around in your house in stitch and gloom." I want you to be happy. I truly want what's best for you.

"That's kind of you." He cleared his throat and rose. "I think my car must be here any minute. Thank you for sheltering me."

Once more her temper had brought out the worst in her. Why was it so hard to have a decent conversation with him? Why did she allow herself to feel bothered by Lady Shackleton? Was she really this jealous?

"I hope your car can be saved," she said in a weak attempt to end his visit in a pleasant way.

"We'll see about that."

In the hallway she returned his coat and top hat and gave him a weak smile, one that he didn't return.

"Will you give the novel to Doctor Clarkson?" Dickie asked. The question threw her completely off guard and she didn't know how to answer. Why on earth would he bring up Doctor Clarkson?

"I don't think so. Why?"

"Well, perhaps his perception of the novel would be of interest to you."

Was he trying to tease her? A look at his stony face told her, he wasn't. On the contrary.

"Doctor Clarkson is not a vivid… reader. I doubt his perception matters to me."

"Well, parts of the village think otherwise." Once more she felt the heat rising into her cheeks. What exactly was he accusing her off?

"I beg your pardon?"

"I think you know what I mean."

"No, I don't."

"I won't do you the favour of spelling it out for you. You know exactly that Doctor Clarkson visit's to this house have become more frequent than ever since the hospital merger has taken place. Last week I heard people wonder, if he still has a house on his own or if he has moved in here."

"Well, as you could convince yourself tonight, he hasn't," she snapped back. How dare he? He had some nerve to have dinner with Lady Shackleton only to show up on her doorstep to imply some sort of improper romance with the village doctor.

They glared at each other for what seemed to become an eternity. She felt hot and cold and her heart was racing in her chest. She liked to think it was fury about his impertinence, but that wasn't entirely true. The truth was she still felt drawn to him - even, no, especially right now that he was radiating with barely contained anger. He was still one of the most handsomest men she had ever encountered.

The lights went off. Without forewarning they were standing in complete darkness. She heard him breathing and the rattling wind outside.

"That's the storm," he said and suddenly the coldness in his voice was gone. "They've warned about this earlier today." She heard him moving and then she took notice of his cologne. Her eyes became used to the darkness and she realized he was standing right next to her. His hand was touching her arm, as if he wanted to make sure she was still there. It was the most innocent gesture, but with her body on high alert, his touch sent pure fire through her veins.

"I have the oil lamp in the drawing room," she said in order not to get carried away by the situation. "I'll be all right."

"I don't doubt it," he said.

Suddenly the lights started to flicker and seconds later the hallway was fully illuminated again.

"Well, I'll go now." He cleared his throat and then his eyes fell on the clock at the wall. "It's almost midnight."

"The witching hour," she agreed sourly.

He opened the door and thunder struck. "What a ghastly night!"

Isobel couldn't agree more. The wind was chilly and despite the heat she felt in her core, she started freezing. Sensing she couldn't trust herself with her body or her emotions, she bid him good night.

"Be careful out there," she said. He gave a long, pensieve look, but didn't return anything. He tipped his hat and rushed through the storm. A bolt of lightning struck and she was startled by the following crashing noise. There was a car waiting for him near the church. She waited until it had left before she closed the door. Tired, frozen, and with the blood boiling in her cheeks, she leaned against the door. She shouldn't feel this way, but while her brain was glad he had left her house, her body protested against the lack of his presence. She blamed the stupid book for her condition and decided to burn it the next day. Without Stoker and his ridiculous story, she wouldn't have wanted him to kiss her while they had stood here in the hallway, surrounded by darkness. Without the book, she wouldn't have wondered how it would feel to lead him upstairs into her lonely bedroom... Without the book, she wouldn't have to worry about how to behave the next time they ran into each other.

-tbc-