Hello readers! You know I'm an angsty writer, right? It's my thing - these roller coasters. And sometimes an idea strikes, darker than usual. And sometimes the writer in me must follow it wherever it may lead. Be forewarned, my dears, there are rough waters ahead for Isobel and Dickie. The fic is inspired by two songs - "You're Somebody Else" by Flora Cash and "I Found" by Amber Run.
Sitting in her cream-colored wingback chair, she had just finished her evening tea. The soft glow of the fire in the hearth cast the room in shadow - of pitch black and amber hues. The flame danced and cracked, and she felt comfort in it. Comfortable in the knowledge that he would be home soon - she only had to wait one day longer. Only one day more would she be without him.
He rarely had business to attend to anymore. Ever since he had left Cavenham to Larry and married Isobel, Lord Merton had no need really to go to London. He had little desire to consult his solicitor anymore but still kept an eye on his finances. Though, to be entirely honest, Dickie had lost interest in any of it. Yet, like the dutiful father he was, he wanted to ensure his sons would not squander the entirety of their inheritance - a trust to manage the estate was necessary, or so Dickie thought.
Isobel stood and walked to the kitchen. Rinsing her teacup out in the basin, she left the cup turned upside down on the counter, waiting for her fresh cup in the morning. She was already dressed for bed in her favorite lavender night dress; its silken softness felt luxurious against her skin.
She looked out the window above the basin; shivering, she pulled the shawl she had around her shoulders closer. It was cold this February evening, and she was not as adept at maintaining the fire as her husband.
She decided it best to turn in for the night, opting for the soft down of a blanket from her closet, rather than stoking a fire in the hearth of their bedroom. She wondered if it would snow again this year. Hopefully not, she thought to herself. Though George finds it terribly amusing, she chuckled as she settled into bed and began to drift off to sleep.
…..
The soft glow of moonlight filtered through the lace curtains of her bedroom window. The house was still - the only sounds - the soft murmur of wind through the trees and the distant hoot of an owl. Yet, the quietness was uneasy, and a faint scraping sound interrupted the silence and disturbed Isobel. At first, she attributed the sudden noise from the wind - perhaps a tree limb scraping against her window, but the sound persisted. She rose from her bed and crossed the room to the window to investigate, her bare feet padding softly against the floorboards. There, she peered out into the dark yard below, her breath fogging up the cold glass, but saw nothing out of the ordinary. No movement. No sign of anything amiss. The house was as quiet as ever. The noise had stopped as suddenly as it started. Perhaps, it had been an animal or the wind. Thinking very little of it, she returned to the warmth of her bed and began to doze off again.
Unbeknownst to her, in the darkened hallway, a shadow lingered, moving silently up the stairs as if it was a part of the night itself.
Then, a noise jarred her awake - the floorboards creaking in the hallway. The unmistakable sound of footsteps - slow and deliberate - just outside her door.
Isobel's breath caught in her throat. Her heart began to pound against her chest. She dared not move, dared not make a sound.
The footsteps grew closer.
She shivered as her bedroom door creaked open. In the dim light of the hallway, a shadow lingered - tall and looming. A figure in the doorway. Isobel's breath hitched, but before she could react, the figure was above her. She gasped as she tried to make sense of what was happening. A rough hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her scream.
A surge of panic gripped Isobel, but she managed to fight back, her sharp mind working quickly. She clawed at the hand on her mouth, but the shadow was too strong, pulling her from the bed with terrifying efficiency, her legs kicking in the air as she was dragged to the floor by her feet.
She struggled; her body twisted and fought, knocking over a chair in the process, but the grip on her ankle was unyielding. Her hands scrambled for purchase to try to lift herself up, but it was useless. Whoever had her in their grasp was stronger, faster, and far more experienced.
A hand now grabbed her shoulders, forcing her to stand, as the other hand released her foot and nabbed her arm, bringing it tightly around her back.
"Say one word, and I will end you," a deadly voice whispered in her ear.
She shook her head swiftly to let her understanding be known.
The figure pushed her out into the hallway, then down the stairs, the house dark and silent all around them as she struggled against her foe. Isobel's heart pounded in her ears as she tried desperately to free herself, but the man was relentless, dragging her around as if she was nothing more than a ragdoll. "Enough," the figure spoke softly, and Isobel stilled her movements, terrified of what the shadow may do.
He pushed her through the hallway and out through the back door into the cold, night air.
The icy wind stung her skin as her bare feet prodded along the gravel path. The roughness of the stones pressed against the soft, sensitive flesh, sending sharp sensations up her legs. Each step felt uneven as her toes attempted to adjust to the jagged edges of the gravel beneath her, wincing as they dug into the soles of her feet.
Her mind raced for a way out as she saw a car, its motor still going, ahead of her. Yet, fear overwhelmed her, a dark suffocating presence that clouded her every thought. She had no idea where the shadow was taking her as she felt her panic swallow her whole - the sheer horror of being snatched from her own home.
And then something struck her head, and she slumped to the ground before her world went black.
…..
Hours passed. Isobel awoke to a cold and damp, dirt floor beneath her, her head throbbing. She tried to move but found her hands bound with rough rope. Blinking rapidly, she tried to adjust her eyes to the dim light of the small, dilapidated building she found herself. It appeared to be the inside of an old barn, worn by years of neglect and harsh elements, though she had no idea of its exact location.
The air was thick with the musty smell of damp hay, wood, and earth. Her nightdress did little to shield her from the cold, and she found her teeth chattering uncontrollably. She knew she was filthy from the dirt, looking down at her bare feet that seemed to be caked in brown mud. The wooden beams overhead creaked, their surfaces rough, cracked, and weathered from decades of exposure to wind and rain. Isobel questioned how well the roof would hold up to snow if it came. The walls were a patchwork of faded, discolored wooden planks; some warped and buckled with wide gaps where the wind whispered through.
She knew she needed to find some source of warmth. Hypothermia could easily affect her extremities; she could barely still her shaking hands. She struggled to her feet, wishing she could loose her hands from their bindings. Her eyes searched her surroundings. Her first thought was to try the barn door, but to no avail. It was locked tight. No surprise there then, she thought to herself. The faint scurrying of mice or the occasional rustle of a rat's tail could be heard echoing off the walls, unpleasant companions for an already disastrous situation. Cobwebs hung in the corners. Piles of hay, now more dust than straw, lay in forgotten corners, some half-buried under a layer of dirt. Hay, at this point, would do - just something to keep warm. Beggars can't be choosers, she reminded herself.
As she scrambled her way to the hay, she noticed a forgotten horse's blanket draped over a stall. It was caked in dust, but it was a far better option than the itchiness of the hay. She pulled it down and over her shoulders as she sat back down, tucking her feet beneath her as best she could.
Outside the wind howled, but inside, the barn held a quiet, eerie stillness as though time slowed down here. Isobel sat still for a moment, the terror settling in as the realization hit her: she was alone. My family has no idea that I am here. Her mind raced, trying to make sense of the impossible. Why have they taken me? Who are they? What do they want?
Isobel tried to push through the haze of panic and focus. This was so unlike anything she had ever been through; this was something entirely sinister. She breathed into her hands hoping to warm them as she wiggled her wrists to try to break free from the rope.
Then - footsteps. The soft shuffle of boots outside the barn, and the door creaked open.
A man appeared in the doorway, his silhouette blocking the faint light of the moon. He stood there a moment, watching her, his face hidden in shadows and obscured by a dark scarf wrapped tightly around him. Then he stepped forward, his cold eyes locking with hers as he approached. He could sense her fear even if her eyes could hold his own.
"You're awake," the figure finally spoke, his voice low and grating. "For a moment, I thought I might have had to bury you."
Isobel's pulse quickened, but her voice kept steady. "What do you want?" she whispered.
The man didn't answer immediately. He only looked at her with an unsettling calmness.
"If…if it's money…I assure you it is no object," Isobel implored, trying desperately to control her shaking voice. "My husband, my family, would be more than willing…"
With a wave of his hand, he silenced Isobel, as if daring her to say another word. "I want everything, and you, Lady Merton," he sneered, his tone dangerous, "will help me get it."
And without another word, he vanished as quickly as he had entered.
Isobel stood again and settled into the hay, the blanket no longer enough to defend against the cold. She wondered if she froze to death would her family ever find her. Don't think like that - she willed herself. I have no intention of dying here. She tried once more at the rope, using her teeth this time. But her efforts only left her hands and wrists sore and raw. I cannot give up.
…
The hours stretched into the early morning as the first light of the sun peeked through the barn slats. Isobel opened her eyes slowly and stole a look out of a small hole in the wooden wall. She hoped the sun would melt some of this chill away.
Time lost its meaning to her, her thoughts drifting to her husband, Dickie, to her daughter-in-law, Mary, and the light in her world, her grandson, George. She tried to think of happy memories, not the chilling reality of her captivity. She could not help but wonder what was happening at Downton Abbey. Has anyone been to Crawley House? Were they looking for her? Did anyone even notice yet that she was gone?
She had almost forgotten about the cold. Her hands and feet were almost completely numb, try as she may to keep them warm, rubbing them briskly every few minutes to ward off exposure and attempting to use the hay as some form of insulation. She almost laughed. I should have worn a warmer nightdress, not one so sheer. Her hair now had pieces of straw entangled in it, and she was filthy, wishing desperately just to sink into a hot bath.
She could not remember how long it had been since the man had left, but when the door creaked open again, her heart skipped a beat. He appeared again - the same cruel intent in his eyes.
"Please," she asked calmly but forcefully, "tell me what you want. Who are you?" She searched the shadows eyes for something - anything that could tell her his identity. She could not read him.
The man did not answer immediately. Instead, he took a few slow steps forward, studying his prey, yet the woman remained stoic.
"You're a smart woman," he said finally. "I'm sure you can put the pieces together."
"Whoever you are, you are making a terrible mistake," Isobel warned, trying her best to maintain an air of dignity. She refused to show fear, even if she did feel the sting of it in her heart.
The shadow laughed. "Am I? I believe it's you who has made the mistake."
Isobel sat silent, hugging herself, unsure of what to make of his words. He's toying with me.
"You'll be here for a while. Long enough for them to assume you are dead," he mentioned casually - as if her demise would bring him great joy. "Consider yourself lucky, Lady Merton, at least you found a blanket. You seem quite at home in the dirt and muck where you belong."
She gritted her teeth and her shoulders rose and fell with slow, deliberate breaths - her anger festering. Though, she dared not say anything; she knew it was only a matter of time before the situation took a far darker turn. Lucky - her mind turned the word over - I am anything but lucky.
"I'll be back," he said - his voice flat.
The door slam shut behind him, leaving her alone once more.
Anger and terror now intermingled in her with a sickening realization. Whoever had taken her - this shadow - was not after just a ransom - it wanted something far more personal, something dangerous.
Isobel shuddered - a sense of dread that this was only the beginning.
…
Crawley House - The Next Morning
It was a crisp morning, though the sun's rays helped the worst of it, as Lady Mary Crawley arrived at Crawley House for tea with her mother-in-law.
As she stepped out of the car and onto the gravel drive, the air was still. The morning's peace, oddly, seemed out of place. She enjoyed Wednesday morning teas with Isobel, having made a ritual of it ever since Matthew's accident. Sometimes she would bring George to spend some time with his Grandmama and Dickie, but not today. She wanted to leave George at home, hoping to discuss with Isobel plans for the Village Hospital. She needed to let her mother-in-law know that she needed to prepare to do battle with her Granny, the Dowager Countess. To be honest, Mary found the two's bickering hysterical, how two people so vastly different could become such close friends, yet feud so often, astounded her.
When Mary arrived at the charming home, she found the front door unlocked. At first, Mary thought nothing of it. Isobel usually unlocked it every Wednesday morning in preparation for her daughter-in-law's visit, just in case she was out in the back garden and did not hear the bell ring.
As she stepped into the house, her eyes immediately went to the back door. It was open, and a painting of a field of daisies by it had been knocked off the wall. Shattered glass had yet to be picked up.
Mary hesitated for a moment and stepped outside, thinking that Isobel may be in the garden. "Isobel?" The garden was empty, save for the fluttering of the trees in the wind.
Her voice was swallowed by stillness.
"Isobel?" She called again, walking to the sitting room.
No reply. Her heart skipped a beat.
Cautiously, Mary made her way up the stairs towards Isobel's bedroom. Perhaps Isobel had taken ill and did not hear her call.
The house, once warm and inviting, felt unusually cold. The smell of tea - absent. As she made her way down the fall, her gaze fell upon a series of scuff marks on the floor, as if someone had been in the house.
Mary's breath quickened.
"Isobel? Please," she implored, a sense of dread beginning to settle in her chest, "answer me."
When she reached the top of the stairs, her heart stopped. The bedroom door was wide open. And inside, the bed was empty. The sheets were in disarray, the pillows askew, as if someone had been violently dragged from them. The air was thick with the unsettling silence of a peaceful night disturbed.
The bedroom curtains were slightly parted, the morning light casting shadows over the room, revealing the unmistakable marks of a struggle: the rug bunched up to one side, a chair overturned.
Mary's pulse raced. Something was terribly, terribly wrong, and it all pointed to one chilling possibility.
Without wasting another moment, Mary turned on her heel and rushed back down the stairs, fumbling for the telephone.
The urgency in her voice was unmistakable as she called for help, her hands shaking as she picked up the receiver. "I need the police immediately," she said, her voice trembling slightly.
Her next thought was of her godfather - Dickie. She could not allow him to learn of this dreadful situation from anyone but herself.
She quickly found and dialed the number of his hotel in London, praying that he would be in his room and that she would not have to leave a message.
"Dickie?" she said when his familiar voice finally answered. "It's Mary. Something has happened."
Her tone was strained.
"Mary?" Dickie was confused. "Why are you calling, my dear? What's wrong?"
"Dickie," she began, taking a breath, "there's been an incident. Isobel is gone. I think she has been," she rushed, words tumbling out in a panic, "she has been taken."
There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Then, as if the words finally registered, Dickie's voice cracked. "Gone? Taken? What do you mean - taken? Taken where?" His voice was suddenly sharp with fear. "What has happened to her, Mary?"
"I don't know. But she's missing. There are signs of a struggle at Crawley House, and…I…I…can't find her. She's gone. I'm having the police come now, but you need to get back here as soon as possible."
A coldness settled over her, the weight of her statement pressing down upon her chest. She could only imagine what was going through Dickie's mind.
"I'm coming home right away," he said, his voice breaking with worry. "I'll be there as quickly as I can."
Mary hung up the phone, her eyes glistening with the first hint of tears for Isobel. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours as she waited, trying to reassure herself that the police would find something. But her mind kept circling back to the pressing weight of Isobel's absence, to the quiet house and the signs of a struggle. She could only imagine how frightened her mother-in-law must have been when it happened.
The woman whom she had come to regard as a second mother - the strong, compassionate Isobel - was now somewhere out there, taken in the dead of night by forces unknown.
And Mary was terrified.
The police arrived quickly, beginning their investigation almost immediately. Cora and Robert had come over - in shock from Mary's news and unable to believe it until they came over and saw form themselves.
"Where could she be?" Cora gasped, as she slumped down on the sofa next to Mary.
Robert looked out the window, wondering. "She'll freeze," he murmured as he pulled his jacket around him.
"Please," Cora pleaded, "don't say such things."
Robert shrugged his shoulders as he watched the police walk up and down the stairs to Isobel's bedroom.
"This is a nightmare," Mary spoke softly, her eyes staring blankly ahead. "I'm in a nightmare."
"When will they be done in the house?" Cora questioned, feeling terribly useless. "I mean," she sighed, "shouldn't they be out there looking for her?" She gestured wildly to outside of the house.
"I don't know how long these things take," Robert admitted, "but I will start looking. I cannot sit here and not do anything." He began to button his coat.
"Where will you go?" Mary looked at her father.
"I guess around the village at first," Robert noted, "see if maybe anyone saw anything. I don't know. All I can do is try."
Cora looked at her husband, admiration bubbling up inside of her. "Please, Robert, be careful. We have no idea what they may want."
"I promise, my darling, I will," he swore as he made his way out the door of Crawley House.
Dickie arrived from London that evening, his face pale and his eyes filled with dread. Cora and Mary had not left Crawley House all day, and Robert returned without any luck. When Mary finally heard the sound of a car pulling up outside, her heart leapt in her chest, but the sight of Dickie - pale and frantic - filled her with dread. He was already asking questions before he had even entered the house, his worry evident with every step.
Dickie took in his home, his gaze sweeping over the broken picture near the back door. Then, he turned to Mary who stood at the bottom of the stairs, her face a picture of confusion and heartache.
"What happened? Where is she? Who could have done this?" The questions tumbled out of him.
"We don't know. The police have been here all day," Mary whispered, her heart twisting with every word. She had promised herself she would never let Dickie face this alone, but the weight of uncertainty pressed heavily upon her.
Her godfather did not reply, his eyes scanning the rooms as he walked up the stairs to their bedroom. All he saw was a knocked-over chair and sheets and blankets tossed carelessly, laying here and there on the floor.
He bit his lower lip, attempting to thwart the tears that threatened to fall.
There was nothing - no clues, no answers. Only questions that echoed louder the longer the police stayed and tried to determine what happened or who could have taken her.
Police lobbed question after question at Dickie and the Crawley family, but they could provide no answers.
As the hours passed, one thing had become clear - the police were not looking for a runaway or someone who had faked a kidnapping. Isobel Grey had been a happily married woman with a family who loved her dearly. Nor were the police merely searching for a missing person. They were looking for a victim of something far worse.
And the family knew, as the minutes ticked away, that they had to remain strong. They would search high and low; they would pull every string and call in every favor. They could not rest until they brought Isobel Grey, their Lady Merton, home.
So…what does everyone think? Should I continue on with this? Please review and let me hear your thoughts. I treasure each one.