Her feet dragged wearily as she made her way up the stairs to her room. It was small, functional, overlooking the High Street. But by now it was quiet, late at night, the dark blue of the sky pervading through the window. She switched on the gaslight, and sat down heavily on her bed. She was still unused to this arriving back to an empty room. There had always been Reginald, Matthew or Richard. The rooms around hers were full, housing other nurses, but at this time she couldn't bring herself to talk to them. Most of them were younger than herself, she thought she liked to take care of them as they worked together; murmuring encouragement when the matron was tough, a gentle touch on the shoulder after an unexpected loss. But off duty she was not part of their world and they were not part of hers.
She sighed as she eased her boots off her ankles, kicking them a little way away so she could put her feet up on the bed. Propping her single pillow up, she sat back against the headboard, undoing the tight collar of her nurse's dress as she did so. Her letters lay on the tiny bedside table. Rather languidly, she picked them up and begin to read them, not fully concentrating. She would read them again in the morning, to raise her spirits before working again. She smiled as she remembered that tomorrow was the last day of her posting, if she wanted to stay longer she could but need not. She had not decided, but it was good to have the choice.
There was a note from Matthew; the usual, asking how she was, telling her to stay cheerful. She smiled at the thought and set the letter aside. Another from Cora, and to her surprise, a brief note from Violet. She came to the last envelope and was surprised by a hand she knew but could not place. She opened it, frowning.
Of course, it was Molesley's writing! How silly of her to forget.
Dear Madam, it read, I hope this letter finds you well and enjoying Oxford. This letter arrived for you at Crawley House. I thought it best to send it on to you, I remembered the handwriting.
Her frown grew deeper. Inside the first envelope was another. And this writing, she knew instantly. This writing had written her love-notes.
"Richard! For the first time in a long while, his name escaped her lips unintentionally.
She ripped the envelope in her impatience. He must have written it before-... It did not matter, it was him, they were his words to her and nothing could lessen that.
She unfolded the paper hurriedly.
Darling Isobel,
As you know there is only so much I am able to say in a letter.
If you hear bad news do not heed it. I cannot explain now.
Wait for me.
I will be there to marry you, my love, soon.
Your Richard.
Her heart pounding, she checked the date. It had been written the day she had come to Oxford.
He was alive then. She read it again. No matter that she hardly knew what to make of the words, what on earth they might mean, the most simple meaning was resoundingly clear: he had been alive when she had been told he was dead, she would never mistake his writing.
As fast as she could, she swung her legs down from the bed, hurriedly drawing her suitcase out from under the bed, opening it and lying it out on her bed. It took her fifteen minutes to pack. She would be back at Downton as soon as she could manage it.
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