A/N: One more chapter today before I get back to writing. We begin with a flashback to the hours immediately following Matthew's death. ***I paraphrased this bit of dialogue from the conversation between Isobel and the Dowager in S04 E03, in which Violet quotes the Christina Rossetti poem Remember.***
~~~~~~FLASHBACK~~~~~~
Richard's had been the only comfort Isobel would accept in the days after Matthew's death. Their relationship had finally, after ten long years, begun to take a romantic turn while the family had been up at Duneagle. He knew it and she knew it, and while his approach to her at the fair may have been different had he not imbibed a bit too heartily, he'd meant what he said. He didn't leave her side for the first week when Matthew died. He sent to York for a colleague to cover his shifts at the hospital and at her tearful urging he took her home to his cottage.
"Please, Richard. I can't stay here," she'd sobbed, and he'd understood. The memories were beyond her ability to withstand. Together they had packed her most urgent belongings, and he'd locked the door to Crawley House while she waited in his car. She was trembling as she sat there, and he couldn't believe he'd missed it. Of course she was terrified. A motor vehicle had taken the life of her only son and here he was hours later asking her to ride in one. He extended his arm to her and she moved closer to him on the bench seat. She was in shock, staring straight ahead with unblinking eyes. He pulled her into his arms and his heart broke.
"Oh, Isobel … oh, my darling, you're trembling. I'm so sorry. I didn't think. Oh, sweetheart, what can I do?" These words he murmured into her hair as he held her and she clung to him.
Bring him back! Bring me back my baby boy! She had wanted to scream, but it wasn't his fault and it wasn't his to fix. She had mustered just enough courage to look him in the eye, and while her voice betrayed her nerves in its quietness, her gaze did not. Her hand grasped his arm like a vise. "Do you love me?" She suspected she knew the answer or she would not have asked.
His mouth dropped open in bewilderment. Of all the things he supposed she might say, that was not it. But he didn't hesitate to answer, for his love of her had become his primary motivation for living each day. "Oh, Isobel, yes. Yes, I love you. Of course I love you." His hand came up to smooth the hair at her temples and unconsciously she leaned into his touch.
"Then take me home, quickly. Before I have time to be afraid of the ride." He had been able to hide the look of astonishment that immediately came to his face, but just barely. That was Isobel Crawley ... in a state of shock and in the clutches of grief the likes of which no human being should have to bear, she was brave. He pressed a kiss to her hair and put the car in gear, holding her to him with one arm.
He'd held her all that afternoon by the fire as she vacillated between shock and rage. He had only moved to add wood to the fire before suggesting she try to get some sleep. She'd cried out as if pained when he rose, missing his warmth.
"I'm here, darling. You should try to sleep now. I'll show you to the bedroom. If you need anything at all, I'll be just here, on the sofa." The cottage was equipped with a second bedroom, but he'd converted it into an office for the purpose of seeing patients after hours.
"No!" she exclaimed. "I won't put you out of your bedroom." Her eyes were downcast and he had to strain to hear her next words. "Will you stay with me tonight?"
"Oh, Isobel ..." He did not know what to say. This woman he had loved for so many years, this mother whose only son had been stolen from her, was asking to share his bed. He had always believed he'd refuse her nothing, supposing he should ever have the good fortune to love her. And he knew that as far as she was concerned, the social contract could go straight to hell. He was not concerned about what her family would think on his account, but on hers ... Isobel Crawley may not have had a title, but if anyone was a lady it was she, and he would not see her reputation sullied.
He'd realized she was looking at him, waiting for his answer. "Isobel, you know now that I love you. I have loved you for such a very long time. And you need never return to Crawley House if you don't wish to. Yes, I will stay with you tonight, my darling, but hear me well. You may not give a fig what gossip you will inspire, but I do. I'll not have there be any truth behind it. Do you understand me?"
She swallowed, hands clasped behind her back. "Quite," she said softly, her face expressionless. He could not bear to break her further.
"But lest you believe that I regard you as a sister ... " He began, closing the distance between them. His hand came up to lift her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes. He pressed his lips to hers in a gentle whisper of a kiss. She responded by grabbing fistfuls of his shirt, her lips parting just slightly as she deepened the kiss. What began tentatively quickly became passionate, their mouths meeting time and again, her hands finding purchase in his silvery-blond hair as his encircled her waist. When she pulled back, it was not out of regret.
"Richard," Isobel whispered, breathless from his kisses, "our timing could not be worse, but I love you too." He suspected as much, but hearing her say the words had him fearing his knees would buckle. He filed that moment away in the storehouse of his mind.
"Oh, but darling, you see I think our timing could not be more perfect. You are a mighty, strong, capable woman, Isobel. But you've just suffered the greatest loss a mother can bear, and even Moses needed companions to lift his hands. We may be in for a rough start, but I believe our love will be sweeter for it. Now, come upstairs and let me hold you." He took her hand and led her up the stairs, where she changed into a nightgown and dressing gown and readied herself for bed, though she did not see how sleep would find her after such a day.
He had changed into pajamas while she was in the bathroom and when she came out he went around to her and took her hand. She hung her dressing gown on the bedpost and he swallowed, his eyes taking in the way the low lighting in the room highlighted the contours of her body through the thin white cotton of her nightgown. He allowed her to choose a side of the bed and pulled the covers over her before he climbed in next to her. They lay facing each other and he regarded her with a mixture of love, respect and concern.
"Isobel," he said gently, "what do you need? Is this all right?" He brought a hand to her cheek and caressed the impossibly soft skin there as he kissed her.
"Yes. Yes, Richard," she said simply. She was glad to be with him, overjoyed even, but that joy was necessarily overshadowed by her grief. She felt it was all wrong, finally admitting her love for Richard on the very day she lost her only son forever. Unfair to Richard. She loved him, was madly in love with him, but there was no way she could demonstrate it now. Disloyal to Matthew, taking up with Richard just hours after his death. And yet, and yet. She knew Richard was right, and while Isobel Crawley hated the notion of needing anyone, she would not survive this without him. She felt at a loss to convey all this to him. She brushed her lips against his, latching onto the bottom one when he deepened the kiss.
"I'm sorry, Richard ... so sorry we're beginning like this. I ... "
He kissed her quiet. She responded, kissing him back though she had begun to tremble again. "Isobel, my love, you have been shaken to the core. Your grief will be all-consuming for a time. But you see, this is not our beginning. You and I have a long history. We've each already seen the other at our best and worst. You won't drive me away. I love you, Isobel. Nothing will change that fact. Now. May I hold you?"
"Yes," she said, and he could hear the exhaustion in her voice. "Please."
"Come here, my love," he beckoned, and she moved closer, curling up against him on her side. She reached out to lay the palm of her hand over his heart but hesitated. In some ways it felt like they had been together for years, but they had only just touched each other as more than friends tonight. He saw the movement, and he caught her hand in his and brought it to its destination. He lay on his back, letting her decide the level of contact between them, but he could reach to card his fingers through her curls and so he did.
She rose up on an elbow after a few minutes to look into his impossibly blue eyes, palm still resting over his heart. The vitality of his heartbeat soothed her. "I'm asking too much of you," she said quietly, matter-of-fact though tears welled in the corners of her eyes.
He drew her down to him and kissed her thoroughly, his heart treasuring the tiny moan that escaped her lips. When the kiss broke he kept her close. "Never, Isobel. No more than I'm willing to give."
"I love you, Richard. Remember that in the days to come. I love you." She kissed him this time, the tip of her tongue tracing his bottom lip. He accepted this most welcome invasion, returning her fervor. They kissed until they were breathless. He allowed her to move herself half over him, the thread of his control stretched thin by the feel of her body and not a great deal covering it. Her nightgown was certainly modest, but the material was thin so that not a great deal was left to the imagination. So he kept her just there, his hands roaming her back but straying no further than her waist.
Isobel had fallen, exhausted, against his chest, tears springing to her eyes unbidden. He remained steady, stroking her hair, rubbing circles on her back. Eventually she had stopped crying just as abruptly as she'd started, too weak to lift her head but pressing kisses to his chest in thanks. She slept for a time but woke later with a startled gasp that also woke Richard.
"Matthew!" She cried out, remembering her new reality. "No!"
Richard's arms came around her. "Isobel. Isobel, I'm here. You're not alone."
She clung to him. "Richard?!"
"Yes, love." He kissed her temple.
"Richard? Matthew!" She was clutching fistfuls of his pajama top, breathing erratically.
"I know, darling," he said, compassionately yet carefully. "I'm with you. I'm here." She began crying again, hysterical, sitting up in the bed, bent double. He sat behind her, situating her between his legs. After a time he coaxed her to lean back against him. She was shaking with sobs, gasping for breath and he knew he needed to intercede.
"Isobel, sweetheart, you need to gain control of your breathing. Here, I'm going to ... " He slid his arms around her waist from behind, pressing a palm to her diaphragm. "Deep breaths, love. Make my hand move. Come on." In order to focus on this task, Isobel had to stop crying. It took several tries but after a few minutes she relaxed back into Richard, breathing steadily.
"You did it, my love! You did it," he whispered in her ear, kissing her there softly. She clasped her hands on top of his, still around her midsection, and he held her in silence. He felt her body go limp against his sometime later and knew she'd fallen asleep.
They spent many nights that way in the ensuing weeks. Sometimes she would rage and scream until she was hoarse, others she'd curl into him on the sofa and cry herself dry. Richard had offered to give her a sedative after the first few nights of watching her struggle, and Isobel had declined at first. ***"I can't help feeling that to accept it would be to forget him, even if only for a few hours. And I can't bear it."
"My darling, better that you forget for a short while and regain your strength, than that you remember to your ultimate destruction."*** He allowed her to ruminate on it without saying anything more until one evening, a week after the burial, when she softly acquiesced under the guise of wanting him to get the benefit of a full night's sleep without waking up to soothe her since he would be returning to work.
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