I'm really very nervous about this chapter.

Richard stood still at the end of the corridor, his eyes fixed on Isobel's face. She was smiling, but not fully; there was a seriousness behind it, a worry. He thought that he was probably sure what was going through her mind, and that it was the same horrible supposition that had flashed through his.

"Of course, my dear," she replied, with a lightness in her voice which to him sounded forced, "Come in. We can have a little talk."

Please, God, not now, Richard thought. Not when she's like this, not when she's at her lowest. Spare her this, at least.

Her eyes raised and met his briefly as she turned and led Edith inside the house. She looked quickly away from him, half-turning back towards Edith.

"We'll go through and talk in the kitchen," Isobel told her gently, "I'll make us a cup of tea. Richard, have you got the time to keep an eye on Helen for a little while?"

"Of course," he replied.

The fleeting look on Lady Edith's face as Isobel said Helen's name was not lost on him. She seemed to be following Isobel rather sheepishly, rather shyly, she seemed years younger, like a girl at school waiting to have a ticking off from the headmistress.

Isobel smiled at her kindly, holding the door to the kitchen open.

"It's not very grand, I'm afraid, but it's nice and quiet," she told her.

Edith nodded slightly, going through the door.

"Isobel," Richard murmured, just a she turned to shut the door.

Their eyes met again and this time she did not look away so hurriedly. They did not need to say anything; they both seemed to take a deep breath.

"Will you be alright?" he asked, finally.

"I think so," she replied, "I hope so."

"I'm here," he told her, quite unnecessarily, "I'm here if you need me."

She smiled.

"I know. Thank you, Richard."

…...

He heard the front door shut. The footsteps in the corridor were quiet. He sat by the crib, and, when there were no further sounds, counted slowly to five before getting up and quietly opening the door. Isobel was standing a little way away from the door, her head leaning slightly to one side, one arm folded around her middle, the fingers of her other hand resting contemplatively against her lips. She appeared not to notice him at first. He cleared his throat gently, and she looked towards him.

"Is it?" he asked her, "Is it what we thought?"

She seemed to smile wanly at his assumption, and he remembered that they had not actually spoken about what they thought. But a moment later her smile slipped away.

"Yes," she answered simply, letting out a deep breath, "She didn't feel up to seeing Helen today," she seemed to realise that Richard was searching her face, looking for a sign of what she thought, what she felt, "She said she liked her name. She wants to keep it."

"I should hope so," he replied, "That's the least she owes you."

"Richard-..." she began gently, trying to assuage his sharpness but not seeming to know how to finish, "I don't know-... I wasn't expecting this. I wasn't expecting her to have been left there by someone I love."

"How on earth did she manage it?" he asked incredulously, "I mean, I take it she had the baby while she was in London, but how did she manage to get her all of the way to you?"

"Rosamund helped her, it seems," she replied, "She sent her with one of the servants."

"Dear God," he murmured quietly.

"At least she got to me, Richard," she told him, "Apparently they thought a lot about what to do. I was considered the best choice."

"Well, they were right in that, at least," he replied.

She smiled weakly.

"Thank you."

There was a brief pause.

"Have you decided what you're going to do?" he asked her.

She frowned.

"What do you mean?" she wanted to know, "As far as I can see, the decision is no longer in my hands."

"You're her mother," Richard told her.

"No, I'm not," Isobel replied simply, "Perhaps I was, when we didn't know who her birth mother was, but now we do."

She spoke clearly, a touch of coldness in her voice. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, he couldn't believe she was saying this.

"Isobel, don't do this," he implored her.

"What?" she asked.

"Don't give up," he replied, "You love that little girl. You're like-..." he struggled, he did not know how to say it, "You're like a bastion, of love. Strong, unstoppable, uninhibited love. You're it's last guardian around here. If you give up, I don't know what hope there is for the rest of us."

To say she looked taken aback was quite an understatement. Her lips parted in surprise, he could tell she did not know at all what to make of what he had said.

"I'm not giving up," she said at last, her voice altered, different somehow, "But what choice do I have? To separate Edith and Helen would be like taking Matthew away from me. And I won't do that," her voice shook audibly now, "I won't make someone else go through that."

He saw now what she meant. It's always you, he thought, it's always you that end up being hurt.

"Isobel-..." he murmured, "I'm-..."

"Don't be sorry," she told him, "There's absolutely no need."

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"Yes," she replied, "I just want to go to bed."

He nodded.

"I think that would do you the world of good," he replied, "Helen's settled."

"Good," she replied, "That is a help."

"Would you like me to call around tomorrow?" he asked.

"Have you the time?"

"Always."

She smiled, again, weakly.

"Thank you, Richard," she told him warmly, "I really don't know what I would have done without you."

He smiled in return.

"Don't think about it," he told her, "I would never have left you to do it alone."

"Would you mind terribly seeing yourself out?"

"Of course not."

She turned, about to go up the stairs. And then turned back, as if pulled back by a thought.

"Richard?" she asked, "What you said about me just now-..."

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