Well, this is strangely addictive to write. It must be all the wooing. And, note the T, if you note that sort of thing.
"This is Dr Clarkson's office."
"Yes, Martha, I think I know that by now. I've already gone barging in there more times than's good for me."
"Oh, yes of course. Sorry, Ma'am."
Isobel smiled to herself at the young nurse's willingness to appear agreeable, that she was willing to effectively insult her in order to seem polite. The poor girl was obviously nervous at having been entrusted with such a task. For herself, Isobel felt really rather guilty at causing her such needless distress; giving her a tour of the hospital was wholly unnecessary, her appointment as Chairman of the Board had not diminished her capacity to remember the layout of buildings. But the doctor had insisted apparently, and now here she was being led down the little corridor of offices separate from the ward.
"This is the on-call room," Martha told her, indicating to the door across the corridor from Dr Clarkson's office.
Now that was something Isobel hadn't known about.
"I'm surprised you've one of those," Isobel confessed, "I'm rather impressed. I didn't think anyone who works here would live any more than half a mile away."
"We don't," Martha replied, "It hardly gets used, Ma'am. Only when there are lots of people in, or one of them's in a particularly bad way, Dr Clarkson'll sleep in there."
Isobel was not given the chance to say anything else before Martha lead her swiftly down to the next door, the one beside Dr Clarkson's. It was true, she did not know what was in there either. A plaque seemed to have appeared on the door since the last time she'd been along here. She put on her spectacles.
"Chairman of the-..." she read aloud, "Chairman of the Board of Hospital Directors? But that's me, isn't it?"
Martha smiled at her.
"Yes, Ma'am, it is. See, that's your name on the next line."
So it was. Mrs I. Crawley.
"I didn't know this job entitled me to an office," she explained, following Martha through the door, still surprised, "I should have taken it more quickly if I had! Oh, Martha!" she was taken aback by the appearance of the room, "It's lovely."
And it was. The room was small and most of the back wall was taken up by big French windows which led straight out into the little walled hospital garden. The neat little desk in the centre of the room faced towards them with a sturdy looking chair and a generous red cushion. Along one wall ran a long shelf, decked with medical and- strangely- gardening volumes, opposite the sideboard on the other side of the room, on which stood a large vase of apparently wild flowers. A meek little armchair, speckled with purple flowers, sat by the bookshelf with a large lamp.
"Oh, I shan't ever be able to keep it this tidy," she remarked merrily, crossing to inspect the flowers.
It all appeared pristinely new, and if it was not, it had been repaired to almost as good a quality. The room might well have been cut out for her. There was little question of it having been like this for the last person in her position.
"Did the doctor arrange for this?" she asked carefully, trying not to look to eager to hear the reply.
"Yes, Ma'am, almost all of it. But I picked the flowers from the garden this morning."
…...
"And what, exactly, do you mean by giving her her own office?"
Good Lord protect us, he thought, How on earth did the old bat come to find out about that?
How she had found out though, he realised, was not really his problem. With the Dowager Countess sitting across from him in his office- though somehow at the moment it felt more as if it were her office- plainly glaring at him, his problem was how on earth he was going to explain this away without reference to his actual motivations, which would certainly be deemed unsuitable.
"Well, I... The Chairman of the Board ought to have to have such a facility, I think, if they should want it," he began uneasily, "And it seems that Mrs Crawley found the arrangement made most suitable."
"I'm sure she did. I am president of this hospital, would I be offered the facility, should I find I needed it?"
"Mrs Crawley also does a lot of practical work at the hospital," he cut in quickly, the thought of Lady Violet moving into the corridor with them both a thought that it did not do to dwell on,"She practically takes on the role of Ward Sister when she's here."
"And I'd wager that your Ward Sister, your rightful one, that is, really appreciates that."
As a matter of fact the Ward Sister hadn't said anything to him, but then again he hadn't really asked her either. And he imagined that at this very moment, that was written across his face for Lady Violet to read. Yes, if her expression was anything to go by, that was exactly what she was seeing.
"Dr Clarkson," If he could admire nothing else about her, he admired her ability to speak plainly. Even if what she said was not necessarily what he wanted to hear. "I don't pretend to understand your apparent preference for Isobel Crawley, and I suppose you realise that it is certainly not one that I share. But I will give you warning that if it were to be noticed by anyone other than me, it could cause trouble for you. A man making allowances for his mistress is never proper, but especially not a medical man."
There were several points of that that he would like to contest. Prioritising would certainly be necessary. First, defend Mrs Crawley's honour.
"My mistress?" he repeated, trying to keep the anger out of his voice. By God, he wished it were true, but that was neither here nor there, "I hope, your Ladyship, that I misunderstand your meaning."
She was gazing at him with that abhorrently feigned innocence he had seen her wear before. She evidently hadn't expected him to attempt to defend himself.
"You mean, yourself and Mrs Crawley are not..."
"No."
"Well, Dr Clarkson, I must say, I do apologise, I didn't mean for a moment to assume that-..."
"Forgive me, m'Lady, but I rather think you did."
Fortunately, he too could be rather plain-spoken when it was required. He had the pleasure of watching her bristle a little at that.
"Well, I think it's rather time I was getting back. Simmons will be worried. I can see myself out."
He hadn't even bothered to rise, and he did not lift his head from the desk as he said:
"Good afternoon, your Ladyship."
…...
"Yes, I think my office is just about to my liking," she told him lightly, looking around from her desk to where he stood before her. His face fell just a little, and so she smiled warmly at him, "It's lovely. Thank you."
He seemed much more content at that. She put down her pen and got up, she was just about done here anyway.
"Matthew tells me he saw Cousin Violet leaving here this afternoon," she told him, resting her hands and her back against her desk chair, "I was rather worried that she was here to badger you, or was she just president-ing along in her usual merry way?"
He laughed ruefully.
"I'm afraid it was more of the former than the latter."
"Well, I can't honestly tell you that I'm surprised. It wasn't about me, was it?"
She was surprised when his face seemed to fall again, and more gravely this time.
"What's the matter?" she asked, "I'm not getting you into that much trouble, am I?"
When he remained serious and silent there suddenly seemed a lot less to joke about.
"What has she said?" she asked caught between a need for caution and an impulse to panic.
It took him a few moment to answer, and when he did it was in rather a low voice.
"Lady Violet is under the impression that... I have something of a preference. Quite a... substantial, and amorous one. For you. And that my treatment of you reflects that preference."
"What?"
He took her incredulity for incomprehension.
"She thinks we're lovers," he explained quite sharply.
"Ah."
Nothing like a bit of bluntness. There was little else she could say to that. Hadn't she spent the past five weeks since she'd known him contemplating that very thing to a greater or lesser extent? Well, hang what Lady Violet thought of them!
"Mrs Crawley," the doctor could not bring himself to look at her, and it caused an undeniable tightening in her chest, "If, in the light of this, you do not feel able to go on working with me, I will more than understand. I wouldn't for a moment want you to think that by doing so you were damaging your reputation."
"I don't think that," she told him truthfully, "I don't think that at all."
Little by little, she felt her heart bending. She wished she could just say it to him. He still wasn't watching her, he couldn't see it written all over her face.
"Well," he said, "I'm glad of that. I ought to leave you to-..."
"No. Don't go." Well, she had said something at any rate.
It had taken him aback, and he turned back towards her, watching her now. She felt herself flush.
"Please," she repeated, fully aware that now he could see ever little movement of her expression, it made her feel oddly exposed, almost ready to cry as she said something weighing on her very heavily, "I don't want you to go."
"Mrs Crawley-..."
She kissed him suddenly, closing the few feet between them in a second, lifting her hands to his face, pulling him towards her. She felt his hands immediately on her waist, at first she thought it was only to steady her, but then they stayed there. At first it was only relief, blessed relief to break to tension that had being weighing ever more heavily between them. And then she allowed herself to really feel it.
It took the wood in the small of her back to notice that he had backed her up against her new desk. It was fairly small, but she supposed it could take her weight, and- in a moment's snap decision- hopped up to sit there, allowing him to nudge tentatively between her knees. All the while he was kissing her.
It did take her quite some nerve to work the hem of his shirt out of his trousers, there was no denying that. Not that he seemed to have any objections, buried in her collarbone. In fact, he seemed to have the same idea, her blouse was open considerably lower than it had been before. That probably how he was moving his tongue slowly along the top of her corset, the curves of her breasts-...
A knock at the door. She did not think she saw anyone jump back wards as quickly as the doctor did then, but she could not take offence from that; she didn't think she'd ever jumped off a table quite as quickly. The most disconcerting part was that she thought they had been the only two left in the hospital.
When Martha stuck her head round the door it was quite a relief. If anyone could be persuaded to ignore an untucked shirt and a dangerously scantily buttoned blouse, it was Martha.
"Begging your pardon, Dr Clarkson, but there's been an accident," she told them both.
"What kind of an accident?" he asked, "How serious?"
"Young man's been hit by one of the cars going up for dinner at the big house. People are saying it's fairly bad. A lot of blood."
"God in heaven... I'll be out in a moment," he told her.
"He's not here yet. Will be in five minutes."
"Thank you, Martha."
As the nurse shut the door behind her, they exchanged a look: disbelief, complaint, apology and unbelievable longing all in one. He lent forwards for a moment, resting his hands on the table either side of her hips, breathing deeply. She covered one of his hands with hers and ran her thumb over it.
"You have to go."
"God, I'm sorry, Isobel."
"Shh, it's alright," she whispered, revelling at the sound of him murmuring her Christian name, lifting her hand to brush fondly against his cheek.
He lent further forward, resting his head on her shoulder, breathing deeply. Closing her eyes, and trying to ignore the sound of his breath in her ear, she whispered- with great effort- the words she knew she had to.
"Go on, you have to go."
Please review if you have the time.