Hi readers! I'm glad there's still interest in this story. I shall continue then, though I must admit that I did have a fair bit of writer's block with this chapter. I can't tell you how many times I started, then stopped, then started again. I hope you find this chapter enjoyable with an old trope thrown in for some comfort.
December 1991
"Well, that was disappointing," murmured Jack. "I mean Dickie had her at his estate, and he still doesn't tell her he loves her. What kind of moron does that?" He stretched out on the floor of George's office - the room below the attic where they had brought the trunk.
"It was a different time back then," George replied, looking at the photographs that his granddaughter Liz had passed him. "People were not so bold, so quick to display affection."
The twenty-two-year-old Liz glowered at her husband. "Moron, darling?" She rolled her eyes. "That is my family, you know."
"No offense," Jack said quickly, wincing at his wife.
"And she lied to him!" Matthew exclaimed. "I've always been told that Isobel was a paragon of virtue - not the type who would outright lie." He shook his head as if in shock. "That's what you've always said Granddad."
"And, for the most part, it's true," George replied. "My Grandmama was a wonderful woman, but she could be stubborn. Very stubborn."
"I guess it must have been awkward for her," Liz tried to explain to the men. "I mean think of it from her perspective. Here's a man who was her best friend when she was young who gave her this beautiful engagement present then told her he couldn't see her again. She's floored. And, in the back of her mind, she wonders what he could have meant…wonders if he did love her as more than just a friend. But she never gets that opportunity to ask him - if she ever worked up that kind of nerve. He never speaks to her for what…going on forty years. Then, that same man happens to be the godfather of her son's fiancé, and then boom he's back in her life. I'm sure she was confused. I would be. Wouldn't you?"
"That's a mouthful," Matthew laughed.
Liz took a breath, shrugging her shoulders. "I'm just saying I understand why she lied."
"Well, Dickie didn't tell her everything either," Jack added. "He could have said that your husband and I served together."
"Why didn't she know? Why didn't Reginald tell her he saw Dickie in the war?" Liz looked at her grandfather - a quizzical expression on her face.
"I honestly don't know," George replied. "Perhaps because he did come back from it."
"There really was too much left unsaid," Jack murmured.
"True," George answered, "quite true."
"So, what happened next, Granddad?" Matthew asked, straightening up in his chair and trying to get comfortable again.
"Unfortunately, that little lie kept Isobel and Dickie apart for many more years," George began.
"Years?!" Jack was dumbfounded.
"Years."
George adjusted the glasses on his face. "Of course, Dickie and Isobel saw each other at functions at Downton, but they rarely spoke unless necessary. It was like they were strangers once again."
"So what gave?" Liz asked.
"Heartbreak for starters," George shrugged. "My father died, and things changed."
"Oh," Liz mouthed. "Did they get together after that?"
"Just listen to the story."
Downton Village Cemetery, November 1921
She hated this - hated it with every fiber of her being. It seemed to be her curse - to bury those she loved. But…to outlive her son…it was a burden she never should have had to bear.
Isobel stood at his gravestone in the cemetery. He had been gone for two months. It was remarkably fast - how quick the monument to her son went up.
Monuments, headstones, tombs, graves - whatever word they used - she never wanted to see the actual thing. It did nothing to heal her heart. Seeing his name engraved on the stone somehow made his death more real.
A painful finality.
She touched the stone, her hand tracing his name.
Matthew Crawley 1885-1921
How she wished it was her name - not his, never his.
But she had to live - had to continue on.
She placed some flowers on her son's grave and slowly walked away from the cemetery. The weather looked ominous. She would have to be quick if she were to make it home before it started to bucket.
Her heart was heavy.
Isobel's eyes looked at the ground below as she walked along the village path back to Crawley House.
Her moment of inattention caused her to collide with another walker.
"Oh, sorry," she murmured as she bumped into a stranger. "I was rather preoccupied." She bent to help collect the parcel the man was carrying.
Her jaw dropped for a second when she realized that the stranger was none other than Lord Merton.
"Mrs. Crawley," said Dickie, "it's quite alright." He also stooped to pick up his package at the same time as Isobel.
For the briefest of moments, his fingers softly touched her hand as they both grabbed his parcel.
His eyes met hers, but she looked away quickly.
He had not seen her since Matthew's funeral. Dickie could not miss that dreadful occasion - out of support for Mary, out of…something…for Isobel.
Dickie took a deep breath. "I never got to tell you how sorry I am about Matthew," he spoke with sincerity and kindness.
"Thank you," Isobel breathed. "I was just there to see him." Her eyes looked back at the cemetery. "The stone is there now," she murmured.
"I'll have to go and pay my respects," Dickie noted.
"I do have to get back to Crawley House," she mentioned.
The skies darkened, and rain began to fall.
"Oh, drat," Dickie exclaimed, "here it comes." He opened his umbrella.
Isobel's shoulders shrugged, and she began to walk the other way.
"Wait, Mrs. Crawley, don't you have an umbrella?"
"I forgot," she said as she picked up her pace to escape the downpour.
"Here," Dickie said as he caught up with her. "The least I can do is walk with you back to Crawley House."
The two walked side by side. Both shielded from the driving rain by the shared umbrella.
The rain continued to belt the pair as they hastened to Crawley House. The umbrella hardly seemed to be a fit match for the deluge now.
As Isobel finally unlatched the gate at her home, she spoke. "Well, it doesn't seem right to turn you away." Her voice was strained, hoping to be heard over the rain. "I owe you a cup of tea."
"Thank you," Dickie yelled. "I wouldn't turn it down."
She unlocked the house and ushered him inside. "If it weren't for you," she added, "I'd be soaked to the skin," she chuckled.
"Well," Dickie added, "we're not necessarily dry right now."
"Come," she said, "a hot cup of tea will hit the spot. I'll get Mrs. Bird to put on a kettle."
She notified her housekeeper, and the pair settled in Isobel's drawing room with a piping spot of chamomile - to settle the nerves and warm the soul, as Mrs. Bird noted.
"Thank you," Dickie repeated. "For letting me ring out for a bit."
"No trouble at all," Isobel waved her hand, dismissing him.
"We haven't really spoken - you and I - in over a year," Dickie mentioned, eyeing Isobel carefully.
"No," she acquiesced, "we haven't. Well, other than the odd social occasion at the big house." Her eyes drifted out the window - lost in thought. She really did not feel like playing hostess now.
She seems so sad. So broken. Aren't I supposed to do something about this? Dickie looked at his hands and then back at Isobel.
"Isobel?" He said, summoning her from her thoughts.
She hadn't heard her given name from his lips in such a long time. It stirred something within her - though she wasn't sure what that something was. "Yes?" she answered slowly.
"I'd like to help you if I can," Dickie began. He gulped and decided to continue. "I promised Reginald I would," he let slip.
Her eyebrow shot up. "Reginald?"
"We were comrades, served together in the Boer War - assigned to the same unit. Didn't he tell you?" Dickie asked.
"No," she breathed. "He didn't."
"No matter," Dickie replied. "But…I would…like to help you. Be a friend again," he admitted, meeting her eyes.
Isobel shook her head. "You promised Reginald?" She tried to wrap her head around what Dickie had said. "Why? What happened?"
Dickie recounted how Reginald had been critically injured, how her husband made him swear to not leave Isobel alone, how Dickie had made that promise.
I know you've always been fond of Isobel. And I can't bear to think of her being alone. Promise me that you will take care of her, please.
The more that Dickie told her the paler she grew.
She sat silent for a while. The anguish on her face apparent. He never did tell me how badly he had been hurt, though I had my guesses.
"You waited a long time to fulfill that promise," she finally muttered aloud.
"I know," Dickie whispered - horrified.
"Too long."
He looked at her.
Her eyes hardened.
"My son is dead and now you want to be friends?" she questioned and then stopped herself when she saw his jaw drop in sadness. "I didn't mean it like that. I appreciate the offer for help," she began, standing now. "It's not that I don't…. but sometimes it is just…" She threw her hands up in the air. "It's just that…maybe it's a promise you can't fulfill."
"But…" Dickie rose to speak.
Her hand silenced him. "I'm not mad at you, Lord Merton," Isobel admitted, "I'm not, but I am so very tired of hurting." She looked defeated.
"Then let me help," he offered.
"You're kind, Lord Merton," Isobel answered. "You've always been very kind. But, perhaps, it's best if you go now."
"You don't have to always be a tower of strength," Dickie said.
You always remind me of one of those romantic heroines. A young maiden walking the moors - a tower of strength, but one who needs something to warm her.
"I always have been though, haven't I?" she replied. "I rarely need a shield. I'll see you out."
Isobel led Lord Merton to her front door.
I'll never find the right words…always fumbling. He thought to himself.
"Thank you for the tea," he murmured as he donned his cap and walked out the door. You're really going to leave her again - he berated himself.
"You're welcome," she smiled as she shut the door behind her.
"Well, goodbye, Mrs. Crawley."
"Goodbye, Dickie," she answered.
When he left, Isobel let her tears fall.
Reginald, why didn't you ever tell me? You didn't have to make sure someone would look after me. You didn't.
She walked up the stairs to her bedroom and opened the door to her wardrobe.
She's always kept that engagement present…that mantle.
Isobel carefully removed the rich velvet mantle. Its emerald color was still rich, and the golden thread of the strings from the hood still shone brilliantly.
When Dickie had left that day of her engagement party so many years ago, Isobel put the mantle away.
It had been relegated to the back of the closet.
She never really inspected the garment as she did at this moment.
On the back of the garment at the inside of where a collar might be, there was an embroidered name in letters of gold.
Hers.
Isobel Crawley.
Not Turnbull.
Crawley.
And she wept.
Perhaps, another heart had been broken so many years ago.
One that she had not recognized at the time.
Dickie Merton's.
…
Cavenham
Dickie Merton returned to his estate downtrodden. He wondered sometimes why he even bothered.
It's not your place. Her life, her happiness were never your domain.
He silently opened the door to Cavenham, hoping not to catch the attention of his butler or his valet. He preferred to be alone, rather than explain his sodden appearance to his staff. He had not quite finished drying out when he left Crawley House.
"Father," a voice from the library called. "Is that you?"
"Yes, Larry," Dickie affirmed, shrugging his shoulders and making his way to the stairs up to his bedroom.
So much for not being found out.
His son appeared at the door of the library, staring up at his father. "Are you not…" Larry began until he noticed the water dripping from his father's hat. "I suppose you should change first," he noted. "Shall I ring your valet?"
"No. I'll join you in a minute," Dickie told his son.
He entered his bedroom and quickly removed his wet clothing. He changed into a dry pair of slacks and a long sleeve, brown, button-down Oxford shirt. There was no need to dress for his son's unexpected visit. He placed his wet clothing over the tub in the adjoining bathroom and returned to the library.
"You were soaked," Larry noted. His eyes turned up from the newspaper to his father.
"I got caught out in the storm," Dickie replied, taking a cup of tea from the tray his son had already helped himself to.
"I let myself in," Larry said, paying no attention to his father, "and helped myself to afternoon tea. Your maid really does make a better cup than those fools in London." He took a sip.
"Larry," Dickie admonished his son.
"Oh, don't worry about it, Father," Larry dismissed the older man. "Those types of people in London are no better than guttersnipes…illiterate most of them."
"That's terribly prejudiced," his father returned. He hated to hear his son's bigotry and decided to change the subject. "So what do I owe your visit? You spend so much time in London these days that I barely see you."
"I'm in need of an advance…on my inheritance so to say," the younger Gray noted.
Dickie rolled his eyes. "How much have you spent this time?" He grew tired of their same argument that he had given up at this point. Dickie preferred to write the check and move on. The only thing…the only thing that Dickie cared about (as far as money was concerned anyway) was having enough to keep Cavenham afloat.
"Now, Father, be generous," Larry feigned hurt. "I'm trying to establish myself in London as a man of business."
"Of leisure more like," Dickie huffed as he wrote out a check. "This is the last one, Larry," he said as he handed the money to his son. "I mean it. Your habits are enough to bankrupt anyone."
"I'd hardly say you were bankrupt, Father," Larry noted, taking in the luxury of his childhood home. "You know I've always been fond of Cavenham."
"I know," Dickie murmured. Fonder of the estate and the money it entailed than anything useful. "There won't be a Cavenham left if you continue the road you're on."
Larry waved a hand at his father as he snatched the check. "Hardly," he said.
"It's true," Dickie returned, "many estates have gone bankrupt since the war. Downton only keeps afloat thanks to Crawley ingenuity."
"Speaking of Crawleys," Larry remarked, looking over the check and making sure there were enough zeros. "How is that cousin of mine since her solicitor offed it?"
"Larry!"
"What?" Larry shrugged his shoulders. "Matthew's dead, right? And now Downton will go to the half-bred son of Lady Mary Crawley and the no-name son of a doctor from Manchester. Not quite the fitting end for Downton Abbey, wouldn't you say, Father?"
His son always did like to press his buttons.
"That's not any of your business," Dickie began, trying to keep his composure.
Larry could tell he touched a nerve, but that never did stop him. "And I wonder what they'll do about the old lady now? Matthew's mother? I'm sure she's enjoying lording over Crawley House. You would think Lord Grantham would throw her out by now."
"Enough!" Dickie stood from his chair.
"Goodness," Larry said, an eyebrow raised. "Quite the reaction. One would think you cared about what happened to old lady Crawley. She's not a member of their family, after all. Not by blood anyway."
"I care about the Crawleys," Dickie seethed - his voice barely above a whisper, "all of them."
"Perhaps, some more than others," Larry noted.
"What does that mean?" Dickie asked.
"Nothing, something mother had said, that's all," Larry murmured. He downed the last bit of his tea. "I should be going. Thank you for the check."
He headed towards the door and then snapped his finger. "Oh, I did want to let you know that I am going to ask Amelia to marry me."
"Really?" Dickie asked, his curiosity piquing.
"Yes," Larry affirmed.
"Do you love her?" his father wanted to know.
No matter what Larry may say or do - I still care for him. And I do want him to be happy.
"No," Larry admitted, "but what does love have to do with anything? She's a good match."
"After all these years, you still haven't learned anything," Dickie said, shaking his head. "How did I fail you?"
"Don't be so hard on yourself, Father," Larry remarked. "I'm not the best of students, and love is a fool's lesson. Mother never had your love, and she lived quite comfortably."
Dickie did not know how to respond as he watched his son shut the library door and leave Cavenham.
Lord Merton walked back up to his office, placing his checkbook in the drawer to the right. He sat down and folded his arms, placing his head on his desk.
He breathed deeply.
Alone in his own misery.
He tried to make her leave his mind - that woman who occupied so many of his thoughts.
Perhaps, it is a fool's lesson - one she tried to teach me today.
But…then again…maybe it's this fool's last hope.
