Chapter Fifteen

Crawley House

After Isobel and Dickie had retired for the night, Helen had stayed downstairs in the drawing room. Armed with a book and a blanket, she waited for her returning visitor in front of the fireplace. She was sure Larry would come back to Crawley House once he was sure his parents were asleep. The clock on the mantelpiece struck midnight when she finally heard the sound of someone knocking at shutters of the big window. On her tiptoes she sneaked out into the hallway and unlocked the front door. Larry, his hair and shoulders covered in snow, stepped in. She placed her index finger in her lips. He nodded and followed her inside the drawing room.

Upstairs the bedroom of Isobel and Dickie was filled with deafening silence. After Isobel had made her confession about her snooping in Ada's old belongings and the result of her little investigation, Dickie had broken free from her embrace. Isobel watched him while he stared outside into the falling snow. She was scared to approach him in any way and just waited for him to digest the shock. She wished she could share his burden of losing his oldest son and heir, but how could she? She didn't even like Larry. She had to live with him and his egocentric personality, but deep down she wouldn't mind if she didn't have to see him ever again.

"You should have told me earlier," was all Dickie said after what seemed to have been an eternity.

"I didn't know what to tell you until I knew the truth," Isobel admitted. "It seemed to absurd… I mean, after all there's a resemblance between you. If could have been idle gossip without any substance."

He replied nothing. She wished he would yell at her and dress her down for what she did. She disturbed Ada and his privacy without his permission. She allowed the Dowager to blow up dust. Why didn't he just blame her for the whole mess instead of looking out of the window into the bleak winter night?

Unable to stay still she climbed out of bed and slipped into her dressing down. Perhaps a physical approach was necessary to break his numbness, but before she reached him, he fled the room.

"Dickie!"

Suddenly all agitated he tore the door open. Feeling powerless, she followed him inside his study where he started to dig out everything that was in the infamous boxes.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," she said, knowing it was useless. He was like a wolf who had smelled blood.

"Leave me alone," was all he said and quickly added, "Please, I need to do this on my own!" he added a bit gentler after he had realized how angry he sounded.

"All right… As you wish." Unhappy with the situation and her part in it, she did as he asked. She softly closed the door. On her way to the bedroom she suddenly heard the front door shutting. Alarmed she looked downstairs and saw Helen in the hallway, wrapped in blanket, shaking all over her body. Isobel rushed downstairs, fearing someone might have tried to burgle the house.

"Are you all right? What happened?"

Helen startled, but composed herself quickly. "Yes, I am all right," she answered quickly.

"Was someone here?"

"No. I was just outside for a few minutes. I needed some air."

Isobel noticed that Helen's clothes and shoes were dry. Relieved nothing worse had happened, she decided not to question the obvious lie. She felt too worn out to ask anything.

"I think I'll go to bed now," Helen said with a faked shudder. "Good night."

"Good night," Isobel said and watched Helen going upstairs. Certain she wouldn't find any sleep, she followed the young woman. It was going to be another, long night.

Downton Hospital, Christmas Eve

Once the door had closed behind a very angry and almost physically aggressive Mr Cruikshank, Richard Clarkson sighed relieved and sank into his chair. He loosened his tie and closed his eyes in annoyance. It was already dark outside and the ringing of the church bells told him it was six o'clock in the evening. Christmas Eve. The night to be jolly and to thank the Lord. He scoffed and wished he had something to throw, but there was nothing on his neat desk that was worth to be thrown. Cruikshank was a plague. The kind of vile man no one wished to be near to. From the three visitors he had talked to during the day, Cruikshank had been the most unwelcome. The first visitor had been Lady Merton. Looking worn out and tired she had paid her grandson a visit that had ended in tears. Almost, almost he had fallen for it. As always when he noticed that she was upset, which was a rare occasion itself, Matthew's death aside, he had felt the wish to comfort her. Then he had reminded himself of the fact that she was married to someone else, that she had chosen someone else over him, and that had given him the strength to be kind without making another fool of himself. He was proud of his accomplishment. Maybe this meant he had already been healing and only noticed it now.

After Lady Merton, her useless step son had thrown in a rare appearance. To Clarksons enormous surprise Larry had finally come up with a name for his son. He had named him Richard, after his father. Richard Gordon Grey.

Then half an hour ago Cruikshank had appeared. The man had had the nerve to ask him to hand over the baby to him. When Clarkson had outright refused in a rather dismissive tone of voice, because he was actually sick of the whole family, Cruikshank had tried to bribe him with an respectable sum of money, and after that hadn't worked either, he had threatened him. After realizing his efforts were useless, Cruikshank had left with the promise to be back and that there would be hell to pay. At this point the doctor wasn't overly concerned. Larry was the father of the child and Cruikshank had no right to make claims on the baby. Anything else would be illegal.

Perhaps he should still consider making a complaint at the police. Clarkson was sure that was exactly what Sergeant Willis needed for Christmas. A mad grandfather, ready to kidnap a premature infant.

"You look like someone who needs a friend."

Startled, Clarkson looked up. Annabelle Kent had wheeled into his office.

"I'm sorry, if I bother you," she said quickly, when Clarkson continued to stare at her as if he had just seen a ghost.

"No, you don't!" He circled his desk. "I just had an unpleasant emergence."

Annabelle smiled, "I couldn't help but you overhear you. It's so quiet in here tonight."

Clarkson sighed. "I'm afraid it is. It's the time of year."

"Shouldn't you be home by now?" she asked. "I think I'm the only patient here tonight and I don't need supervision. Go home and enjoy your evening!"

He scoffed. "There isn't much to go home to," he admitted flatly. "I live alone."

She blushed, a bit embarrassed. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have brought it up."

"Never mind," he returned and gave her a smile. "It's not much fun being here on Christmas Eve as a doctor, but I gather it's even worse as a patient."

"Oh, I'm fine," she answered. "My daughter was here this afternoon and she will visit me tomorrow. I'm not that lonely."

"So, I assume it's not so bad that she's staying at Crawley House after all," he remarked.

Annabelle contemplated his statement and then she shook her head. "No, I guess it's not. My daughter is a strange creature though. You never know what she's up to next."

"I know the type." Pensively he leaned against the edge of his desk.

"You know what kind of type I do take you for?" she asked in an attempt to ease the mood.

He started grinning. "Tell me…"

"The kind of man with a bottle of fine, Scottish whiskey in the cupboard…"

He narrowed his eyes. "How did you know that?"

"Intuition." She shrugged. "Am I right?"

"Of course, you are." With a chuckle he crossed the room, opened the cupboard where he hid his favourite malt from a small distillery near Pitlochry.

"That's a good one," he heard her saying as he poured them two glasses. He thought about the night Isobel had refused to have a drink with him after Amelia had died and realized the memory didn't feel as painful as it used to be.

"To Christmas," he said, as he handed her the glass. "May the next one be better."

Annabelle returned the toast with a blink of her eye, "May the next one be the best."

Robert had been so kind to send his motorcar to Crawley House to pick up Isobel and Dickie since the new car Dickie had ordered from Tom and Henry would be delivered after New Year's Day.

Helen had decided not to join the Crawley Family for their Christmas Eve dinner.

Isobel didn't know whether her migraine was a fake or not, but she decided to accept it without further inquiry. Perhaps Helen needed the same break they all needed.

After their restless night and a rather dull day of more snow and less smiles, the drive to the Abbey was silent. Dickie wasn't necessarily avoiding her, but Isobel could tell he was hurting and busy with himself. He had spent the night in his study and obviously he had come to the same conclusion as she had, after he had read Ada's diaries and her correspondence. She had found some of the letters burned in the fireplace in the morning.

For the rest of the day Isobel had tried to distract herself and had visited the baby, but seeing the little boy had only worsened her guilty conscience. She felt as if she had robbed off a grandchild of Dickie. She knew he was one of the most loving and tolerable man she had ever met, but could he ever see Larry's son as his own flesh and blood ever again? The vision of bleak future for the family as a whole had brought tears to her eyes. To her dismay Dr Clarkson had found her crying, but at least he hadn't given her one of his usual tantrums and had stick to some useless, but kind words of encouragement.

The sound of her sudden, exhausted sigh startled her as well as Dickie.

"Are you all right?" he asked alarmed.

"Yes, I am. I'm sorry."

To her surprise and relief he reached out to take her gloved hand. "I'm not in the mood for Christmas either," he said, as he squeezed her hand. "But I guess, it wouldn't have been very kind of us not to attend."

"I know." She moved closer against him and leaned her head against his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Dickie."

"It's not your fault."

"I think it is…. I'm too noisy. If I hadn't been so jealous of Annabelle in the first place, none of this would have happened."

"I don't know what in life is supposed to happen and what not, but if I know one thing that almost everything happens for a reason. Maybe Larry and Helen have a chance after all."

"But that means, we would have to tell them the truth and once they know, someone else will know too."

"Not, if they start over somewhere where no one knows them. The world is big enough and offers many opportunities. Tim's moved to the new world already and he's happy there."

Isobel lifted her head and gave him a look of utter disbelief. "You can't be serious."

"I'm dead serious," he answered. "I'll talk to Larry. Maybe not on Christmas, but soon after when I'm ready to face my own demons."

Isobel didn't know what to say and so leaned back against him and stared into the falling snow. The Abbey in all its wintery splendour appeared in front of them and she drew another breath, bracing herself for the upcoming celebrations.

Crawley House

Helen was nervous. There was no way she could swallow the food, the maid had brought her up from the kitchen. She had tried to telephone Larry, but the butler had told her Larry didn't wish to talk to anyone. The underlying feeling of having made an awful mistake the night before hadn't left her mind all day long. After his proposal of running together, Helen had told him that there was no way of them ever being together, because she was half-sister. His initial disbelief had turned into an outright breakdown that had driven him out of the house and into the snow. She had hoped that he simply needed time to adjust to the thought, but if she was wrong? What, when after Amelia's death, the arrival of his baby, and her being his sister had finally driven him over the edge? What, if it all had been too much?

She hadn't told the Mertons about her conversation with Larry, because the couple was too occupied with themselves. Maybe she should have. What if she had made one mistake too many?

Cavenham Park

Larry Grey emptied the carafe with the whiskey and didn't bother to close it again. He emptied his drink with one gulp and then he sealed the envelopment. He placed it against the desk lamp in view for everyone who entered the room. For the last time he checked the revolver near the carafe. It was loaded and ready for use. He looked outside. The snow fall outside had almost stopped. The world out there was silent and waiting for a miracle. Well, he wasn't. Not anymore. He slipped into his coat, took the gun, and left the house. He wasn't coming back.

Downton Abbey

In the Abbey Isobel and Dickie did their best to appear in the best of moods, but both had to admit they were making a rather poor performance of it. After dinner the family was having their coffee in the drawing room. Dickie was talking to Tom and Henry about cars, while Isobel and the Dowager were sitting in a corner. Isobel almost never took her eyes off Dickie. As pensive as she had been after their conversation in the car, she was now increasingly getting nervous and the same went for him. HIs body language told he was barely listening to what the young men were talking about. Not that she was actually listening to the Dowager who vividly spoke of her luncheon with Lady Shackleton a day earlier.

"What's eating at you tonight?" Violet asked, appropriately annoyed when she noticed that Isobel wasn't paying attention to her story.

"I'm just thinking," Isobel said with a shrug. "The last couple of weeks were quite exhausting and now I'm just on edge and I don't know why. Something's wrong and I don't know what it is."

Violet crooked her eyebrows. "Why is your houseguest not here tonight?"

"She didn't feel well. Perhaps she needs some time alone."

"Do you think she and her mother will ever leave again?" Violet asked. "I think they look pretty much settled in by now."

"Just because Annabelle is in the hospital. I won't be sorry to see her go, I will admit that."

"And Larry?" Violet asked with a meaningful look. "What does he say to all of this?"

"Nothing yet," Isobel answered and toyed with the end of her right glove. "And I can honestly tell you, I fear for the say, he will have something to say about this. If you'll excuse me now. I think we should leave soon."

"I'll join you. That way the driver won't have to get out twice tonight." Violet rose as well and followed Isobel.

Andrew, the footman, crossed the hallway with a tray of fresh coffee when he heard someone knocking frantically at the front door. Barrow who just left the drawing room to get the coats for the leaving guests, heard the noise and gave Andrew a nod.

"I'll take the door, you'll bring in the coffee."

Andrew nodded and the butler went to the door. In front of it he found a beautiful dark-haired woman in her thirties. He saw no motorcar or any other object of transport. Perhaps she had been the victim of an accident, though she looked more panicky than injured.

She was wrapped in a woolen coat, but wore no hat, and he had never seen more impractical boots for a walk through the snow. Her teeth were chattering and her cheeks were reddened from the icy cold.

"How can I help you?" he asked.

"My…. my name is Mrs. Rouquette. I have to talk to Lord and Lady Merton. It's urgent!"

*****tbc******

So... you can tell is story is slowly coming to an end. What is Larry up to? Is Clarkson about to find a new love? And what will happen to Larry's son? Questions, questions...