A/N: Thanks for the love, everybody. Here's the next bit. Writing angry!Richard makes my heart pound. I take the task of giving him a voice incredibly seriouly. Be well, all!

xx,
~ejb~

Sound, thundering like a steam train, rings in his ears, pounding in time with his pulse. Echoes of the things they'd said to one another over the years; an indistinguishable jumble:

—"Well, it is her house."

"Does that mean she's suddenly received medical training? Or are you like everyone else in thinking that, because she's a countess, she has acquired universal knowledge by divine intervention?"

—"I have to go where I am useful. And that place, I'm afraid, is no longer Downton Abbey."

"You'll be missed."

"By you, possibly. I hope so, anyway. But not, I think, by Lady Grantham."

—"I sometimes forget, when we meet in the splendour of the abbey, that you were a doctor's wife. That you know what my life consists of in a way that no one else does …"

"It's a relief to be able to talk without having to explain oneself, isn't it?"

"A relief, and a privilege. And I hope we can do it again. Soon."

—"I'd be interested to know … if you've ever thought of marrying again."

"Are you thinking of getting married, Dr Clarkson? Because if you are, you're a better man than I am, Gunga Din."

"Why?"

"Well, with good friends like you, I enjoy my life as it is, and I wouldn't want to risk things by changing it."

He is looking at her. She is saying something to him, but the pandemonium inside of his head is all he can hear. He feels his knees beginning to buckle, a cold sweat breaking out.

She touches his wrist. "Dr. Clarkson, are you quite well?" He sees her frown, and her concern almost touches him. Until he remembers that as a nurse, it's second nature for her to respond if she perceives distress in others.

"I wouldn't want to risk things by changing it."

It's not a personal gesture at all.

"Yes, quite," he replies abruptly. "Only I have a lecture this afternoon and I need to review my notes beforehand so as to avoid making a hash of it."

Is that shock he registers in her expression? Surely she can't have expected them to reunite as friends.

He's never been the vindictive sort, but he can't help thinking:

Now you know how it feels to be dismissed.

"I'll go with you," she tells him. It's not an offer; it's something she has resolved, and in response he does something he hasn't had occasion to do in years.

He rolls his eyes at her.

oOo

He should say something to her, shouldn't he? He can be civil even if his thoughts toward her are bordering on the murderous.

"What brings you to York?" He feels he's adequately genuflected already and omits her title this time.

She doesn't quite smile, but she appears relieved that he has addressed her.

"I had a meeting with the board of directors to learn how my skills might be of use to the hospital." She casts her gaze downward momentarily, and when she meets his eyes again he sees a flash of … something. Discomfort, he thinks; beyond that it isn't clear. "Now that I've got time on my hands again."

Ah. "Lord Merton?" he asks.

She nods. "It's been about eighteen months. Complications of pneumonia. He'd just got back on his feet after the anemia." She looks at him directly. "You were right that it wouldn't kill him, but it certainly did weaken his constitution. We were both taken ill with bronchitis, but I rallied rather quickly." With a shrug, she concludes, "He didn't."

He stops walking; they've reached the building that houses his office. He does not ask her in. "I'm sorry," he tells her. It's all he can manage, but it is sincere. Lord Merton was far from his best mate, but he would never wish him dead.

"That's kind of you to say." A smile that doesn't reach her eyes. He used to know what each of her facial expressions meant, and if he can still read her (why should he have any interest in reading her?) this one looks a whole lot like regret. Interesting. (He secures his inner armour.) But it does not move him.

She is speaking again. Awfully chatty considering the state in which they left things, he thinks, but then she was always going to say her piece or die trying. "It's probably for the best." He senses that she's waiting for him to engage her. He doesn't. He can't. If that's ill-mannered, he reckons he can be forgiven.

Some things must truly never change, however, because she ploughs on despite his silence, even if it is done with reticence. "I don't think I made him happy," she confesses quietly.

And, damn him, his instinct is to pacify her. "I'm sure that isn't true." How would he know, and what should he care?

She won't be deterred. "He was in love with the idea of me. However he got it into his head that I'd be passive and docile —the perfect society wife—, (he almost snorts aloud at this) he found out straightaway that I wasn't."

What is he supposed to do with this information? "All the same, you were with him to the end. I'm sure that was a great comfort." This affirmation costs him nothing. He has seen her way with patients, and it reaches beyond competence. She possesses a genuine empathy well-suited to those in her care.

Her countenance has gone stony, her eyes clouded. "That's as may be. It certainly taught me a thing or two about myself." She doesn't wait for his prompting to continue. "I suppose I was in love with the idea of being useful. When we thought that he had pernicious anemia; when I whisked him away from Larry and that wretched Amelia, it was all quite thrilling. I had a purpose once again; I could save him. And then suddenly we were married and I realised my mistake."

He shifts uneasily from one foot to the other; withdraws his pocket watch; checks the time. As he replaces the watch he sighs, rubbing his forehead. "I'm not sure I understand why you're telling me all of this."

He watches her flinch, and for an instant he almost regrets his words. But she had shown no regard for him when last they'd known one another, and though he has always been a forgiving sort, he is no pushover.

"I married a man I didn't love, and burned bridges in so doing. I loved someone else, and my behaviour towards him was abhorrent. There's nobody to blame but myself for that. Being needed is not the same as being known. By the time I recognised that, the damage had been done."

"And still I wonder: why are you saying this to me?"

Her eyes shimmer with tears threatening to spill over. "It's you I love. It always has been. But you'd never have known it by my actions."