Isobel's eyes snapped open, her nightgown clung to her body awkwardly. Disgusted she pulled back the covers and went the bathroom trying unsuccessfully to rearrange the garment. The clock showed the hour was a little after two. She grabbed a flannel and wet it with cool water. She pulled her nightgown off and began to wipe away the sweat from her body. A fresh nightgown was found and put on. She didn't know how to react, her dream wasn't truly a nightmare it was just damned unsettling. She got back into bed favoring the other side that she normally did not sleep on. She fell into a light doze it had the benefit of not granting dreams. However, it would also not grant her true rest.
Across the village Richard Clarkson was in his own bed. As soon as report had been given he had meandered to his cottage. Tonight he would brave his own bed and not his overnight cot. He stood next to his bed and regarded it, while it was a rectangular object and comfortable it seemed more in line with a bed of nails. He flung back the covers, was he expecting to find a snake or another creature in his bed?
He wouldn't bother with a medical journal or whisky. He exhaled sharply before scrubbing a hand over his face. The bed was his enemy and he was facing it. All he could do was whisper, "please" before he got into bed and closed his eyes.
He was on his bicycle pedaling through the village. Behind him were the rolling green hills and lush farmland. It would be a few miles before he came to the village center. He passed wooden fences and waited as a herd of sheep crossed before him. Above him the clouds were gathering overhead, black and heavy with moisture, it was going to rain, it was going to piss it down! He could hear the first drops drop against his hat and the shoulders of his coat. The pace of the drops increased as did the sound, it was roaring! Before him the road seemed to swell with water and he knew he would have to ditch his bicycle in a safe place and ride out the storm. There was stone building near him with a thatch roof overhanging at an angle. He could prop his bicycle against the wall and stay dry under the overhang. Dismounting he grabbed the handlebars and rushed towards the building. The bicycle was secured and he pressed himself against the brick wall watching the force of the rain. He was caught up in the storm until he felt a weight on his forearm. He turned and saw Sybil. She was not in the blue gown in which she labored and died. Instead she was in her nursing uniform with her hair secured in a white kerchief. On her arm the red cross seemed to glow. Her stare wasn't piercing as it normally was in his dream, she seemed to be assessing him. He sucked in a breath, "I'm sorry" he whispered.
When she sighed and shook her head in the negative he began to chant, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He didn't know he was crying until Sybil's other hand brushed his tears from his cheeks and then held out her hand so he could see them glistening on her fingertips. Sybil then placed one finger on her lips in a motion for him to be quiet, "shhhh." She soothed. His chanting stopped and he quieted. He couldn't look at her for he feared what he would see. Lightening struck near them and he felt himself leave.
When Richard woke for a moment he didn't know what was real. Cora, Isobel and Richard all watched the sunrise over Downton. Sleep had been abandoned. All of them needed to examine what had transpired in their dreams.
Isobel was terrified that something had happened to Richard, was he hurt, had he done himself harm? Reginald had been a physician the fact that he had not aided her in the dream was unsettling. For a wound like the one Richard had, pressure to stem the bleeding was needed. Yet he had just sat beside her shaking his head as if she was using the wrong color of paint on a canvass. What else could she have done? What was she supposed to do to help him?
Cora had a good idea as to the him that Sybil and the child had been referring to. She had spoken to Robert in the days after Sybil's death. A yes or a no. She had politely told him to stay out of her room all the while her nose was buried in a book. Had she even looked at him? Who was the boy? Sybil knew him or seemed to know him. She didn't recognize him yet she hadn't been around young children in good while. His clothes were old, was it someone from her own forgotten childhood? The sun couldn't rise fast enough. She wanted to speak with Isobel.
Richard was feeling even worse, he had never married and had no children of his own. Sybil had been like a daughter to him. He had guided her in nursing and she had supported him with the convalescent home. They had had some cracking conversations of medicine and ethics during the war. With her senseless loss he felt adrift. Now in his dreams she was comforting him? It was another reminder of what a sweet girl she had been. A sweet girl that had died a needless death. He had fought for her, against Sir Philip Tapsell, against her own Father. Even when he had been all but dismissed and the baby born he stayed. He had injected her with atropine in a vain attempt to keep her alive. When she began complaining of headache he quickly readied the morphine. Even in her state she could see the syringe and knew its contents. She had pounded her forehead with her hand before voicing her pain, the morphine hadn't touched the pain and yet he had given her a large dose!
Should he have shouted at more people? Should he have dragged her to the hospital himself? Should he have given her a larger dose of morphine to spare her the agony? He let these scenarios play in his head, he let his anguish be a form of penance. What bothered him was that in his dreams Sybil seemed to be offering him absolution.