Chapter 6

After dinner Dickie decided not to join Sir Leander and some other men for a game of cards, which left him with the choice of joining the upcoming séance or to disappear entirely. He preferred the latter, but he saw hiding from the rest of the party wasn't an option for a gentleman. Why again had he set foot into this house?

His strange encounter with Isobel and Clarkson this afternoon wouldn't leave him alone. The sight of them leaving the library together, both being flustered and nervous, had awoken new doubts within him, despite her former assurance that there was nothing going on between her and the Doctor.

He looked into his drink. At least the scotch was something the kitchen couldn't spoil. He looked out of the window next to him. Rain was hitting the window, but at least the thunderstorm was over. Small mercies.

Next to him Winifred appeared. She beamed at him and said, "Are you ready to join us?"

"Not really, actually." He cleared his throat. "I'm not really into this kind of… entertainment."

"But why not?" she asked in complete disbelief. "It's fun… the excitement… the goosebumps…"

"Well…" He wasn't interested in excitement or goosebumps - at least not in the context Winifred described.

"The Doctor and Mrs Clarkson will join us… just as Mrs Rogers."

"Will they?" The idea of sitting through this with Isobel and Clarkson was even worse. Half an hour ago the agony of sitting next to her at dinner had ended and he had hoped to avoid her for the rest of the day, but not even this wish was granted to him. He had no idea what had been worse, her silent treatment or the so-called collapsed souffle.

Across the room he spotted her. Tonight she wore a dark blue dress that perfectly matched the colour of her eyes. He remembered the dress from a dinner at the Abbey. It was one of these dinners when everything had been all right between them, before he had made the proposal to her.

"Yes, they will," Winifred answered. "Please, come with me."

He gulped the rest of his drink and she linked arms with him.

#######

"It's our last evening here. Let's pretend to enjoy it," Clarkson whispered over Isobel's shoulder. They were walking at the end of a small assembly that moved through the hallway.

"Enjoying a séance?" she barbed back. "A thought you're a man of science!"

"I am a man of science," he defended himself. "But I had the choice between gambling and a séance. My wallet chose the latter."

She scoffed, "You mean you had the chance of spending time with Sir Leander or Mrs Rogers and you chose the latter."

"Well…" She practically felt how he was blushing and enjoyed the effects of her words. It wasn't the first time he used a lame excuse to achieve his goal. The man had a nerve!

"And before you wonder, this afternoon I told Mrs Rogers everything about our arrangement."

"You did what?" He couldn't believe it and even stopped dead in his tracks. She turned to him and smiled, "I told her I wasn't your wife and she seemed rather… glad to hear it. So, if the spirits are favourably disposed to you - and if you don't mess it up - you should stand a realistic chance with her."

Before them Winifred stopped and turned around. "My dear friends, from now on I advise you to be as quiet as possible. Let's not shoo away the spirits!"

Next to the hostess Dickie rolled his eyes. Winifred opened the door and led the group, consisting of herself, Isobel, Clarkson, Dickie, Mrs Rogers and three other people inside.

"How could you tell her without asking my permission?" he murmured into her ear.

"You told her almost everything about me without my permission - in addition to the things you invented to sound more like a hero," she snapped back. "I think we're even now."

"Are we arguing about this again? Of course, I was the one who helped you to get over Matthew's death. Who do you think made sure you always had a job at the hospital?"

"A certain lack of nurses?" she hissed back.

"Mrs Clarkson, why don't you sit down next to Lord Merton. And you Doctor, please take a seat on the opposite side of the table." Winifred's voice was almost a whisper. Clarkson looked up and finally he noticed his surroundings. The curtains were closed, The lights switched off and only candles spent some lights across the dark furniture. In the middle of the room stood a big, round table with nine chairs. One of them was occupied by a woman who wore a headpiece with blue and green feathers. She was obviously the star of the evening and she knew it. Her red hair was magnificently thick and held together with many hairpins to tame it, but only with moderate success. Just like Isobel, Clarkson didn't believe in spirits floating around, but he had to admit that the lady was someone who carried the aura of someone mysterious around her.

"Sit," she said. With all eyes directed at her, the guests approached the table. Winifred choreographed the seating arrangements with hissed orders and in the end Clarkson found himself next to Mrs Rogers.

"How exciting," Eudora whispered. "I've never been at a séance before."

"Well, they are a bit outdated by now," Clarkson said.

"Aren't you excited?" She beamed at him. Considering the fact that she knew that he had lied to her before, her behaviour astonished him. Perhaps Isobel wasn't wrong about her assumption after all.

"Not really," he returned as quietly as possible.

"Don't you believe in ghosts?"

"It's hard enough to believe in people, don't you think?" He looked at Isobel who was sitting next to Lord Merton.

"Not everyone is what we want them to be," Eudora remarked. "That doesn't make them anything less lovable though."

"You're a good judge of character."

"I try to be." She gave him a bright smile and placed her index finger on her lips to silence him.

#########

Isobel watched the star of the evening, the spiritist called 'Lady Rosmerta' with growing annoyance. Combined with the atrocious food this performance tonight was the absolute low point of the whole weekend - and as far as she was concerned the weekend had been nothing but a series of low points.

"Now, please, join hands," Rosmerta ordered.

Isobel turned her face to Dickie who smiled gently at her. "I won't bite."

With a shake of her head, she allowed him to take her hand into his. She hadn't felt his touch in ages and enjoyed feeling his warm skin under her finger tips.

"Do you want to talk to someone?" she wondered quietly.

"The only person I wish to talk to is sitting right next to me," he answered. "And it's not Lady Ward," he added with a side glance. Isobel grinned. Of course, Winifred had taken her chance and had placed herself next to Dickie. From what it looked like she was not just holding, but squeezing his hand.

"So, you're not eager to hear how Ada's doing?"

"Not particularly. Anyway, I doubt she would answer if I asked."

Isobel snorted and earned a nasty glance from Rosmerta and Winifred.

"Silence! We don't want to disturb the spirits!" Rosmerta closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. Isobel looked at Dickie, who seemed even less enthusiastic about the whole thing than she was.

"You know what?" she declared. "I think I'm not up to this." She looked at Dickie who acknowledged her statement with an encouraging smile.

"I agree!" Dickie rose and without letting go of his hand, Isobel joined him.

"We don't want to disturb the spirits," she explained a little smugly and nodded at Clarkson. "Give my wishes to… whoever is floating around under the ceiling."

#######

After their escape from the séance, Isobel and Dickie retreated into the library. While Isobel was sitting in a chair near the fireplace, watching the flames flickering, Dickie was on the search for a decent drink. He returned after five minutes and carried two glasses of brandy.

"Here you go," Dickie said, as he handed her the glass. "I'm sure it's better than the tea this afternoon."

"It doesn't take much," she quipped and nipped at the brown liquid. It was indeed a good vintage. It smoothed its way down her throat and unfolded its warmth within her stomach.

"What are you thinking about?" he wondered.

"Nothing in particular," she answered vaguely. "It's such a strange evening."

"It is a strange weekend," he corrected her gently. Then he sighed and shook his head. "I really wish to understand you, but every time I try to, I seem to get it all wrong."

"In what regard?" she asked curiously.

"In every regard…." He looked across the room and his eyes ended on the empty spot where the vase had been standing before it fell victim to… whomever. "What happened in here this afternoon?"

"I would rather not say," she said truthfully.

"I see…" He crooked his eyebrow and gave her an estimating look.

"You're still thinking the worst of me," she concluded and emptied her drink.

"I just don't know what to think. There's a difference."

"What do you think happened?" she countered, a little feisty.

He cleared his throat, "I guess you had a fight and it wasn't about the contents of the shelves."

"Well spotted." She wasn't exactly tipsy, but she started to feel the effect of the brandy. It had loosened her tongue. She watched him closely while he was searching for the right words. To her amusement he seemed a little lost and unable to phrase his thoughts. Perhaps he didn't want to risk offending her again.

"What was the reason for the fight?" he asked.

"Storytelling," she quipped. "Not every tale is a good one."

"What's the kind of story you prefer?"

She shrugged. "I'm a bit past the exciting ones."

He chuckled, "I beg to differ. I still find you to be the most interesting protagonist I've ever encountered."

Feeling coy, she countered, "I assume you aren't meeting a lot of people these days."

"Only, if you find Larry and the Cruikshanks boring."

"Boring is not how I would describe them."

He leaned forward and took her hand into his. Surprised, she let it happen.

"I've been thinking," he said. "And if it's really true that there's nothing going on between you and Doctor Clarkson…" his voice trailed off as if he waited for her to explain something.

Not ready to let him off the hook, she smirked, "Go on."

"Well… I've been thinking about us a lot lately. About us and the house… Cavenham. I wonder if I might… move out and let Larry and Amelia have it. Lady Grantham was right when she said it was big and draughty. I don't feel comfortable anymore and you've never liked it either."

"I'm not quite sure where this is leading…" She truly couldn't follow him. Maybe it was the brandy that clouded her mind and didn't allow her to follow his train of thoughts.

Once again he drew a deep breath. "Well, I have done this before, but it seems, I really haven't got the hang of it. My father was right when he said I could never be a salesman and shouldn't try it."

She watched him with baited breath while he pushed himself forward and sank on one knee in front of her. Her heartbeat increased to a dangerous level and she didn't know what was worse. Her fear for his knee or her fear for not being strong enough to refuse him in case he managed to propose to her again.

"Isobel Crawley, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"

Her mouth opened, closed, and opened again. She was speechless - and incredibly moved.

"You don't have to be quite so shocked," he said, a little unhappy. "It's not that I haven't asked you before. You know how I feel about you and…"

"Oh Dickie, I…"

That was the moment when the lights went out and only the flames of the flickering fire illuminated the room…

###tbc###

As you can conclude this story is approaching its end :-) But it remains to be seen, if all will be well in the end. If you have the time, please let me know what you think. Have a great week everyone!