"It's quite ironic," Isobel remarked to Richard, as they rounded the stone corner at the junction of two streets, walking comfortably arm in arm, voicing something she kept noticing at the moment, "And it's also very sad. My son and I never seem to be able to properly happy at the same time. For instance, when he was engaged to Lavinia I was trying to cope without you," her thumb traced gentle circles over his knuckle through their gloves, "And now he's not been quite the same since she died; and I'm trying to pretend for his sake that now, with you, I'm not the happiest I've ever been."

There was nothing he could say to that. He smiled his thanks at her, squeezing her hand tightly in his, wanting to kiss her, but at the same time knowing that on a fairly busy street in York probably wasn't the place to do so discretely. They were holding hands, though, as their arms linked between each other, which was more than they would have dared to do in Downton, or even Ripon.

"He's not the only one," he admitted, after a few moments' thought, "I'm not sure the funeral did much good for any or us."

"No," she agreed, "I noticed that too. You in particular, my darling," she turned to him in concern, "I didn't want to say anything at the time, but I noticed that you were awfully quiet after the funeral, Richard. It wasn't your fault. There was nothing you could have done. I seem to spend most of my time trying to tell the men I love most that very thing: you and Matthew both. There was nothing any of us could have done. That's what made it so tragic."

"It wasn't exactly that," he admitted, "Though that certainly had a part to play."

They walked at a constant but leisurely pace, at the side of the street so other people could get past them with ease. She was quiet, waiting for him to go on.

"I was feeling rotten at the funeral," he told her, "You are right, I was feeling guilty, there's no denying it. And it made me feel very alone. I wanted you, Isobel. I wanted to be with you and hold your hand and hold you. But you went away with the family up to the big house. I know, I know it's not your fault and that you have to. I know that you'd have stayed with me in an instant if you could have chosen to. And that's what made it worse. I've never loved a women of a higher class than my own before. And when you have to leave with the family, it makes me feel unfit to even kiss your hand. That's why I was quiet later on."

"Richard," her thumb brushed reassuringly across the back of his whole hand, "You know there is no man on earth worthier of me than you? Simply because I don't want anyone else but you. And I don't care a jot for social class or anything of that sort."

He smiled at her.

"Yes, I do," he replied.

They walked on a little further down the street.

"Doesn't he know?" Richard asked, referring to how she'd said that she'd been 'pretending', "Matthew? Hasn't he noticed that there are some nights when you aren't at home?"

"Probably," she replied, "But to be honest, I don't think he's up to making any earth-shattering deductions at the moment. He's very introspective, to the point where I don't think it's good for him. But I have faith that when he's ready he'll come back. Anyway," she added, with a small smile, "Somehow I don't quite think that he'd think his old mother had it in her, to be having a great, torrid, gallivanting affair at her time of life."

He looked at the waves of soft, blonde-brown hair pinned at the side of her face.

"You are not old," he told her, not for the first time, "I'll never see you as old."

"Then logically you are in no position to comment on it," she pointed out, raising an eyebrow at him.

"Or perhaps I'm the only one who should be allowed to."

She laughed.

"I'm not sure how you reach that conclusion-..."

"But it suits you, and you might just as well go along with it?" he finished for her.

She laughed again.

"Isobel? Where are we going? I've no objection to simply wandering around all day with you, but you do seem to have somewhere specific in mind."

"I'm going to buy some new clothes."

There was a pause. Confused, she turned her head to look at him.

"You needn't look like that, Richard, I'm not asking you to buy me some new clothes."

"It's not that," he told her, "In fact, if you want me to I will buy your new clothes for you, but-..."

"But what?"

"Do you really need any new ones?"

Even more puzzled, she turned to look at him.

"The war's over. I can no longer use it as an excuse for having nothing better to wear than my scruffy old togs."

"Your old clothes aren't scruffy!" he insisted, "I'm serious, Isobel. It sounds ridiculous, but if we're talking about those old blouses with the flowers scattered all over them, they were the clothes you wore when I fell in love with you. It's horrendously sentimental, but I love the sight of you in them, and I'd hate it if you threw them out."

"Oh, Richard, I wasn't going to throw them out! Heavens, no! Though admittedly, I didn't quite have the same reasoning as you. I was going to save them for when I do the gardening. Yes," she smiled again at the look on his face, "I still do my own gardening, even though Molesley could probably keep the place in much better shape than I do. It's the one little domestic thing that I refused to give up on."

Of course, he already knew that. He had often seen her as he passed by, in the years before the war especially, when she'd be in the garden, a basket of rose cuttings in her hand, and wearing something old, haphazard, patchy, and generally speckled with flowers. It was difficult not to say to her now, again, that he wanted to live with her. He wanted to sit in their garden on warm evenings and watch her at the height of her beauty, in one of her old blouses that conveyed the essence of her spirit, her brow furrowed into a frown as she snipped at the stalk of a flower with the clippers. But the days were getting colder now and it was too late in the year now for roses; that gave him the time to wait that they needed before next year's would be out.

"So will these new clothes of yours be in accordance with the new fashions?" he asked curiously.

"Not entirely," she replied, "For instance, I don't think I'd quite get away with a hemline that high."

"Oh I don't know," he told her in a low voice, "You've got nice legs. And that you can take my word for."

"Anyway," she continued, ignoring that remark but for another raise of her eyebrows, "I don't think it could do much harm to go for something a little bit more modern. Stay in touch with the young. It wouldn't do to be caught loitering backward if Cousin Violet suddenly took it upon herself to move forwards."

"I shouldn't worry about that," he remarked, "She's been wearing the same dress more or less since 1890."

"Well, I can't say that surprises me."

He laughed quietly.

"Do you want to come into this outfitters with me?" she asked as she finally stopped outside of a small shop, painted a discrete purple, "Or would you rather go for a walk instead? It would probably be best, it's bound to be terribly dull for you."

"Yes, I think I'll come back, if that's alright. Don't be too long," he told her, leaning forward and kissing her quickly on the cheek.

…...

He drove the car to the end of the street and parked it around the corner so that there wouldn't be too far to carry her parcels. He tried, when he met her outside the shop door, to be gallant and take all of her parcels for her, but found that there were so many that he couldn't quite manage it.

"I got a little bit carried away," she admitted, "I didn't quite realise how much I like these new fashions until I was confronted with a shop full of them."

He smiled over his shoulder at her, and he loaded the parcels into the back seat of the car, turning to take the box she was carrying out of her arms.

"I can't wait to see you wearing them," he told her, leaning forward to kiss her on the cheek again.

Moving away, he could see the mixture in her eyes of warning him of the need for caution and glinting happiness. It made her utterly beautiful and he leant forward again to kiss her on the lips.

"Richard!" she exclaimed in her surprise, as his lips left hers, resting her hand gently against his chest.

"Sorry," he murmured, his face still close to hers.

"No, don't apologise. Never apologise. Just be careful."

"Do you want to go back to Downton now?" he asked, "Or should we stay and have something to eat first?"

"Oh, yes, let's, I'm starving now that I think about it."

Closing the door of the car, he took hold of her arm again, leading the way.

"There's a quiet little teashop not too far from here. Just along the street and across the square."

It was getting towards the evening now, with the autumn the nights were drawing in more quickly, and hints of the cold sunset light of an autumn evening flickered over the tops of the buildings. As they crossed they heard music playing in the square: a man sat winding the handle of a large musical box playing Roses of Picardy.

"Richard, what's the matter?" she asked, as he stopped abruptly in the middle of the square, as if hearing something unexpected.

Not answering, he took hold of her hand, leading her quickly over to the pavement where the man with the music box sat, giving him a shilling to keep playing and drawing her closely into his arm to dance. His hand rested on her waist, where she could feel its comfortable pressure even through the thick of her overcoat; the thumb of his other hand caressing back and forward along the line of her shoulder blade. She was totally perplexed by now.

"Richa-..."

"This is the song I heard when you were away that reminded me of you," he whispered in her ear as he turned her gently around, "I never missed the chance to hear it, though it made me want to cry most of the time. There was a kind of comfort in it, and Roses of Picardy made me think of you because you were in France."

He felt her body ease a little, as she swayed back and forth with him. The lavender smell of her hair brushed against his nose. It was wonderful, after all of the lonely times that he'd listened to this song that he should finally dance to it with her.

"I was in Paris, not Picardy, though, thank God. Quite a lot of it was destroyed in The Somme," she told him, "More foolish waste. It was so beautiful. I'd been there once before when I was younger, my aunt took me there one summer."

"We could go there together, if you like," he told her, "When the damage has been repaired. And to Paris too."

"Like you wrote we would?"

"Yes."

"Oh, Richard, I'd like that," she told him, smiling, her cheek resting against his as they continued their gentle dance, "I'd like that ever so much. We could go-... Well, we could go as a sort of-..."

"What?"

"A honeymoon."

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