Hello dear readers! I know it has been an incredibly long time since I updated this story. I hope there is still some interest in it somewhere out there as I still do enjoy writing.
December 1991
"So…we can all safely agree that Dickie Merton had the worst timing imaginable to tell Isobel about her husband," Jack winced, looking at a picture of the couple on their wedding day that had also been tucked neatly inside the old trunk.
"Rather," Liz murmured. "Her son has just died and now he tells her that he never fulfilled her husband's request to watch over her. Sheesh!"
"Words…or boldness for that matter…was never really his strong suit," George admitted freely.
"I honestly feel sorry for my great-grandmother," Matthew added, taking the mantle from Liz to inspect the garment. It still felt like velvet, although age had worn it a bit.
"I feel sorry for Dickie too," Liz said sweetly. "I mean his sons sound ghastly."
"Social climbers," George remarked, "I know my mother never cared for them."
"So," Jack wondered aloud, "what happened next?"
"Well," George began as he settled back down into his chair, "Isobel and Dickie did not really see each other much until Lady Rose's debutante ball at Grantham House."
"And…a ball would suggest a dance, right Grandfather?" Liz eyed George, gently nudging him from her seat on the floor at his feet.
"A dance, yes," George affirmed, "but that does not mean things go according to plan."
"They rarely do," Liz admitted. "Well, go on with the story." She sat enraptured as George took them back in time to summer 1923 at the opulent home in London's Saint James Square.
…
June 1923 Grantham House
The music swirled around the ballroom of Grantham House, filling the space with elegant harmonies of violin strings and the soft rustling of silk gowns and the tapping of patent leather loafers on a wooden floor. It was an evening of celebration for Lady Rose MacClare who could hold the attention of even His Majesty the Prince of Wales. The fire crackled in the grand hearth, casting a warm glow across the high ceiling and crystal chandeliers, while guests mingled with an air of gentle excitement.
Isobel Crawley stood to the side of the ballroom, her gaze wandering across the room. Her fingers lightly touched the edge of her crystal champagne glass, though she had not taken a sip for some time. She was dressed in fine linen, and, to the man that watched her, appeared as beautiful as any queen could ever be.
She observed the dancers—some graceful, others stiff—her thoughts momentarily drifting to her late husband Reginald. It had been years since his passing, and yet, there were moments when the weight of his absence felt unbearable.
She always felt ill-suited to balls, preferring a quiet evening at home. But, now, dinners and dancing had become more of a regular occurrence, and she wished that Reginald could have shared them with her.
A voice suddenly cut through her reverie.
"Mrs. Crawley, may I have the honor of this dance?"
Isobel turned to find Dickie Merton standing before her. His bright blue eyes were warm with the familiar mischievous glint that had drawn her to him so long ago. His reputation as a gentleman preceded him as he was impeccably dressed in black tailcoats, a perfect fit for the occasion.
Her face paled, nervous that he could produce a new unexpected revelation.
"Lord Merton," Isobel acknowledged him pleasantly and then took a swift sip of her champagne. Her eyes looked for anyone who may come to the rescue, landing on Cousin Violet who seemed quite eager to pretend to ignore her plight. "I didn't expect to see you here tonight. I thought you preferred more...quiet pursuits."
"I could say the same of you, Mrs. Crawley," Dickie replied, his smile widening. "I was certain you would be at home, reading by the fire with a cup of tea, not waltzing around at a debutante's soirée."
Her lips twitched, hoping that he may drop this pursuit and leave her be. "The occasional break from solitude is necessary for one's sanity, I suppose -" her voice sharper than she intended it to be.
Dickie's gaze softened, and for a moment, Isobel could have sworn she saw something more than playful banter in his eyes - perhaps a glimpse of understanding. But it was fleeting, vanishing before she could make any sense of it.
"Then, perhaps, you won't mind the company," he said kindly, offering his hand once more. "Would you care to dance?"
Isobel hesitated; the idea of stepping out onto the floor with Dickie Merton after their last meeting, even for something as innocent as a waltz, felt…strange. She had been harsh to him at their last meeting - cruel even, she reasoned. Why is he so insistent on being kind to me?
And yet there was something about his eyes that made her want to say yes, even if she could not quite put it into words.
But, then, there was that other part of her - that stubborn, unyielding independence she held fast to like a ship to its anchor - that demanded her to say no.
The corner of her mouth lifted in a polite smile, but she shook her head. "Lord Merton, I -"
"No need to decline so hastily," he teased, summoning up his courage. He would not face her rejection again. "I promise I will not step on your feet...not intentionally anyways.
Isobel gave a soft laugh, adjusting her gloves, as her resistance began to crumble. "Very well. No harm in one dance," she admitted, placing her hand gently in his as he led her to the floor.
Other couples swayed gracefully around them, their movements synchronized with the music. Lord Merton was a good dancer, Isobel noted, with a fluid confidence that came from years of practice, years of maintaining a lifestyle and appearance that a great estate demanded. He guided her through the steps effortlessly, his hand steady on her back.
For a few moments, Isobel allowed herself to be swept up in the music, a momentary escape from her thoughts as they moved across the floor. She could feel Lord Merton's presence beside her, his gaze occasionally flicking towards her with that same playful expression - as if the tone of their last meeting was forgotten. She remained distant - the walls to protect her heart unmovable.
"You dance quite well, Mrs. Crawley," Dickie mentioned, his voice low. "I'm surprised you've been hiding such talents." Holding her, Dickie felt, was so…effortless, so right. He felt sure he could never let her go. I won't lose you again - not this time.
Isobel smiled politely, though her eyes revealed something more somber. "I've danced more at Downton now than I ever did when we were younger," she admitted freely. "I suppose it's the practice."
When we were younger…the words struck Dickie. So, then, she has not forgotten our past, our friendship. "Yes, when we were younger, I recall a young nurse who was more interested in watching her father at work than looking at fancy new dresses in shop windows or practicing dances with her friends for a London party," Dickie chuckled, remembering the young, light hearted, spirited woman she had been. As the music changed tempo, he dipped her and, for a fleeting moment, he saw the girl he once knew again.
Her eyes momentarily lit up. "You recall all that," she laughed as heartily as she once had.
"I do," he affirmed happily. His eyes sparkled as he could not take them off her.
"Things have become rather more complicated now," she admitted, "I'm not that same girl." Her brown eyes refused to meet his gaze.
Dickie softened, and for the first time that evening, his expression wasn't one of mirth. "I understand," he said simply. "Life has its way of changing us, throwing obstacles at us that sometimes seem insurmountable."
She did not respond. They continued to dance, but the ease between them seemed to fade slightly, replaced by an unspoken understanding of the past and present that both still seemed unable to navigate. Isobel's smile remained, though guarded now, her thoughts slipping back in time. Dickie's words stirred something in her that she could not confront.
As the music drew to a close, they slowed, and Lord Merton gave her a small bow, his hand leaving her waste. "Thank you for the dance, Mrs. Crawley. It was…" he struggled for the word, "a pleasure." It was so much more than that.
"Thank you, Lord Merton. It was kind of you to ask." Isobel gave him a nod, her voice soft.
But there was something lingering between them, a question unsaid, a possibility unacknowledged…and yet…a spark ignited.
"Perhaps another time then," he added hopefully with a final bow, "whenever you are ready."
Isobel watched him walk away, not entirely sure what had passed between them. She stood for a moment in the middle of the ballroom before returning to her previous position on the sidelines, back to the wall.
Her smile faded as she allowed the weight of their last conversation…his past, her past…to settle around her once more. Where were you, Dickie? There were years we could have been friends. Years lost.
And a thought that had not crossed her mind since she was a young girl at her engagement party returned. I am fond of him…though I do not know if I could…the word difficult to even think…love him.
The music faded, but the warmth of the dance remained. For Isobel, there was still much to heal, much to reconcile. But for tonight, she would take solace in the simple joy of the dance, the quiet company of a man who, though charming, had yet to find a place in the tangled world of her heart.
And as the evening continued around her, she made a silent promise to herself—she would face whatever came next when she was ready, but not a moment before. Perhaps I owe him another chance...to be friends again.
…
The Dower House
Isobel Crawley arrived at the Dower House for tea with Violet a week after the ball at Grantham House. The home was a stately manor, though not as imposing as the figure who occupied it, Isobel chuckled as she made her way to the back garden. Creeping ivy softened the stone walls, adding a sense of history to the home's quiet dignity. Cousin Violet's grounds were in full bloom, and the brilliant red roses on the trellis reflected the charming elegance of the home that Isobel found appealing. The sprawling, vibrant beds of purple foxglove, pink peonies, and white primroses found shade beneath one ancient beech tree that cast long shadows in the afternoon light. Isobel followed the gravel path, lined with potted plants, that led to small, white metal chairs and a table of tea set for two. As Isobel took her seat next to the Dowager, she listened to the sound of birds chirping and the rustling of leaves in the gentle breeze.
"Good afternoon," Isobel smiled. "You picked a lovely day to take tea outside."
"I did," Violet returned. "It's been a beautiful and exciting month with a trip to London, Rose's ball, a good number of things," she eyed Isobel and smiled knowingly, "and…Lord Merton's keen interest in you."
"That's news to me," Isobel retorted, nostrils flaring.
A wry grin appeared on Violet's face; the dance that she had witnessed spoke volumes, and she could scarcely wait to discuss it with Isobel. "Well, I must say, my dear, there was more than a flicker of a…spark…between you and Lord Merton on the dance floor at Grantham House."
Isobel rolled her eyes, exasperated that Violet wanted to bring up this topic again. "Oh, Cousin Violet, please. You are reading far too much into it. It was just a dance."
Violet raised an eyebrow. "A simple waltz, was it? My dear, you may call it that, but there was something in the way you both moved, the way you looked at each other, if only briefly. There was something…unspoken." She watched Isobel, hoping to spy a chink in her friend's armor. "Don't tell me I am imagining it," she warned.
Isobel looked down at her hands for a moment, avoiding Violet's gaze. "Perhaps not," she admitted quietly, "but that does not mean it's anything to dwell on."
Violet leaned closer to Isobel, willing the younger woman to meet her eyes. "Isobel, I've known you for years; you cannot fool me. What do you think about him now?" The Dowager gently pressed her friend.
"I am fond of him," she admitted softly, "Lord Merton was a dear friend." Isobel tried hard to choke back the emotion in her voice, "It's just…it's complicated. I cannot pretend that it did not hurt when he left all those years ago, and then to find out that Reginald and he were in the war together…" Isobel stopped herself, having already said too much. "Time has changed me. Things are not as simple as they once were."
"Time changes everyone," Violet affirmed. "You can't dwell on the hurt of the past; you will never have a future if you do."
"It's not that simple," Isobel insisted again. "Lord Merton and I have both had full lives. He has his children, and I've no desire to complicate anything."
"I doubt Lord Merton sees it that way," Violet chortled. "Don't will yourself to be unhappy. Sometimes, Isobel, we can be our own worst enemies. We tell ourselves that we are too old, too sensible, too hurt to forgive and forget." Violet took a pointed sip of tea before she continued. "But all that does is close the door before we've even had a chance of finding out what's inside. And I must say that, at the ball, you and Lord Merton looked rather…well suited." She smiled softly as she watched Isobel squirm uncomfortably.
"I know the world is supposed to be full of second chances…but…" Isobel began.
"But what?" Violet cut her off sharply. "Stop overthinking," the Dowager commanded.
"I don't know if I am ready for," Isobel wrung the napkin in her hands unconsciously, "well…any of it. Maybe I've had enough of that kind of…hope. Lord Merton is a good man, but I cannot pretend that I am not afraid."
"You've been hurt before, I know" the Dowager's tone softened. "The idea of opening your heart is frightening, but that does not mean you should close it off forever. It would be a shame if you would not allow your heart to change as well."
"It was so much easier when he was no longer in my life," Isobel admitted. "I've spent so many years wondering why he left when he did, and, better still, why he is here now."
"Does it matter?" Violet voiced. "The past is gone, and he is here now trying to make amends. You just need to admit that you do feel something for him. And I saw what it was when you danced with him. You cannot walk away from that."
Isobel let out a breath, her eyes staring into the distance, before she looked at Violet again. "You've given me a great deal to think about. And I promise you I will."
"I hope so," Violet chuckled. "After all, you're not getting any younger, Isobel." A wry grin formed across the Dowager's face.
Isobel rolled her eyes but smiled.
"There's no need to make promises. Just take a chance. Sometimes it's one small step at a time, or rather, dance at a time. The rest unfolds as it was meant to," the Dowager said sagely.
"Now," Isobel stood and walked to the trellis of roses that she had been admiring. "Do you mind if I take a cutting of these? They're rather beautiful."
"Not at all," Violet chortled as she leaned on her cane to stand.
"I've been meaning to add something new to my garden, and these would look lovely."
"Though," Violet snickered, "I doubt that you will have as much success as I do with them."
Isobel laughed - put into her place once again. "I very much doubt I will. Though," she added, "I am a rather gifted gardener."
So…what did you think? It has been a maddeningly long time having written anything for this story I know. I enjoy writing conversations between Isobel and the Dowager - honestly probably my favorite part of the process. I hope you enjoyed this update.