Hi readers! If there's still any left that is! I'm really can't apologise for the fact that this story has been abandoned for so long. My life has been getting increasingly busier, so I don't know how regular my updates will be in future, but I promise to keep updating. Also, I chose to wrote Dr. Clarkson for this chapter, but for a long time I wasn't sure what to write. I hope you enjoy it nevertheless.

Dr. Clarkson collapsed into the chair in his desk, exhausted. He'd been on his feet since this morning when he'd been called out to the village to visit a woman who had began going through the first stages of labour. When he got there, he'd noticed that she'd seem confused and rather distressed. Recognising the condition, he'd spoken with the family and they'd all agreed that it would be best if he operated. The result was a healthy mother and child.

He remembered a year ago when he had identified the same condition. But it was a different time, a different place. A different woman, this one going by the name of Lady Sybil Branson. And. . . a different result. One that had left everyone who knew her grief-stricken. Including him. He'd known the Crawley girls since their childhood right up to present day and still felt sad whenever he remembered the outcome of that awful night. Trying to distract himself, he picked up the newspaper on his desk but didn't get any further than the date. 27th May 1921. There it was. Exactly one year today. He dropped the newspaper back on the desk.

He'd never forgive himself for what happened. Perhaps if he'd been a bit firmer, a bit more direct, she'd still be alive? But he hadn't and now she'd been dead for a year. Don't, he told himself. There's nothing you can do. He knew that. He'd said much the same when they were gathered in her bedroom on that fateful night as her family stared in shock and disbelief, desperately begging her not to leave them.

But she had left them. It'd had been such a horrible moment when he reached in between Mr. Branson and Lady Grantham pressing his two fingers against her wrist and felt nothing. No strong steady pulse pounding back against his fingertips. During the war, when the men came in on stretchers and were laid down on the beds he always checked their pulse. And there was always a pulse. Sometimes a rapid beat going far too fast to be ignored or it was just a faint and weak reverberation that indicated immediate action was required. He hadn't felt either, or even anything in between. And in that moment when he couldn't detect a pulse he knew it was the end.

There probably wasn't a day that went by when he wasn't sad she was dead. There probably wouldn't a day when he didn't regret not intervening that night. There probably wouldn't be a day when he wouldn't remember her.

If you're feeling nice, reviews would be great!