So, dear readers, I bring to you my next Isobel and Dickie story. I hope you will like it. The story is inspired by the song "Her Mantle So Green." The version I am listening to is by Eleanor Shanley. I recommend you give it a listen as it may provide the particular mood I am going for in my writing. Please, if you are so inclined, leave me a review and let me know if this story is at all interesting and if you want to read more. I'm always interested to know what you think, and it keeps me going.
December 1991
He was busy in the attic of old Crawley House, cleaning it out of the many items that it had accumulated over the years.
The blonde young man with mischievous blue eyes spied an antique brown trunk with a silver frame in the corner. He walked over to it, bending low to avoid the roof framing and railings. "I wonder what this could be," he said. He attempted to open it, but the lock was rusted tight. He attempted to lift it. "Bloody thing weighs a ton," he murmured under his breath.
Pushing the trunk to the attic's entrance, he shouted, "Jack," he yelled, "come give me a hand with this thing! Bring some WD-40 with you!"
"Of course," Jack said, "hand it down." Jack, a muscular man with ruddy red hair and green eyes, appeared at the entrance to the attic.
"Might want to call granddad in here," the young blonde man said, "he may find this interesting."
"May find what interesting?" A seventy-year-old man appeared at the door. George Crawley was distinguished – a fine figure dressed in gray trousers and black button-down shirt. He looked ever the spitting image of his father Matthew Crawley.
He had managed Downton Abbey for nearly fifty years, taking full control of the estate after the death of his mother Mary Talbot.
He had seen so many people he had come to love leave this earth over the generations. He had seen so many changes since his birth in 1921 – things his Donk, Granny, Grandmama, or Granddad could not even contemplate.
He missed his grandparents – Robert, Cora, Isobel, and Dickie. They had been major influences upon his life. George hoped he had made them as proud as his grandchildren had him.
"This great heavy chest, grandad," the man noted as he hefted it down the attic ladder with the help of his brother-in-law Jack.
"Matthew," George began, "I have not seen that trunk in ages. It was my grandfather's. Adopted grandfather, actually, but my grandfather all the same. Dickie Merton, you remember, your great grandmother Isobel's husband.
"My namesake's mother?" The young man, Matthew Crawley, asked.
"Yes," George answered, "the very one." He walked over to the corner of the room, searching through the drawers of a cherry wood dresser. "Here it is…" George walked back to his grandson. "Matthew, I believe this may open it."
"Should be interesting," Jack commented as he sprayed the lock with the rust remover, "a trunk that hasn't been open in ages."
"Not since after my grandmother had passed," George admitted. "Been a long time." George ran a hand through his gray hair, remembering – the nostalgia seemed to overwhelm him for a moment. "Call your wife in here, Jack. Liz may find this interesting as well. She always wants to know the family history."
Jack shouted down the stairs for his wife Liz Henshaw – nee Crawley – to come join them.
Liz was George's granddaughter and shared that same blonde hair and blue eyes. She was a kind woman – hardworking and incredibly efficient. She trudged up the stairs and into the last room on the left – the one that housed the attic stairs. "What's going on?" She asked her husband Jack.
"Your brother found this old chest up there," Jack answered, patting the trunk with his hand.
"Can we get it open?" Liz's curiosity immediately piqued. She was always keen on Crawley history and deemed herself the family historian.
"Got the key right here, my girl," her grandfather answered with a twinkle in his eye. "Figured you would be interested."
"Open it up then," Liz instructed, smiling.
George Crawley opened the trunk, coughing a bit from the dust that the displaced lid had unsettled.
The chest contained letters, pictures, medical books, flowers pressed between pages of journals and books that, at one time, must have mattered a good deal to someone.
And a mantle.
A mantle – an odd piece of clothing to keep locked tight inside a chest. A hunter green cloak – somewhat dusty from the trunk, but still the same rich color. The mantle was made of crushed velvet – soft to the touch and comfortable. It bore two golden strings that tightened the hood at the neck.
A green mantle.
But why would someone keep it? Other than for the reason of it possessing a fine quality. It had to be over one hundred years old.
George picked up the mantle, swiping away the dust and clutching it tightly to his chest. He closed his eyes remembering the story he heard long ago about this cloak. It was a tale he cherished – one the lord and lady finally told him when he was old enough to understand.
"What is it Granddad?" Matthew asked, noticing how the old man looked at the cloak as if it was a great treasure.
"Why would anyone keep a mantle so green for such a long time?" Liz asked. "One normally keeps wedding dresses or christening outfits – not so much old cloaks." Liz said as she began to go through the chest, thumbing through the papers and photos inside.
"Sometimes clothes – objects – things…they tell a story," George replied sagely.
"So," Matthew chuckled, "I'm guessing this green…what do you call it…cloak, mantle, thing tells a story?"
"A mantle," George laughed, "yes, it does." The older man moved to the great blue wingback chair in the room. "Sit down around me, and I'll tell you."
"This should be pretty good," Liz answered as she lowered herself onto the floor, sitting legs crossed.
"What's the story, Granddad?" Matthew asked, coming to join Liz, but splaying out on the couch instead of the floor.
"It involves your great grandmother – Isobel and her husband Dickie," George began.
"A romance then?" Liz asked, "Oh, I do love a good romance."
Matthew rolled his eyes at his sister. "So…what about great grandmother? Was the mantle hers?"
"Yes, Matthew, it was." George looked at his grandson, thinking about how much they all resembled both the Crawley and Turnbull side. "Everyone comfy? Good. It's a long story."
And George Crawley began to tell the tale of his grandmother – Isobel Crawley – and a cloak that held more history than one would have guessed – one of parting and one of meeting.
…
June 1883
Dickie Merton did not want to come to this party. He would not have done, but his father insisted upon it. Nor would he have attended unless she agreed to meet with him.
He had fallen in love with her, but she was engaged to another man.
He walked slowly to her house. It was an engagement party – the last event he ever intended to go to at the Turnbull home.
They had met a year prior – at the hospital where Doctor Turnbull practiced. Though he had never made it to Harley Street, Sir John Turnbull's skill was well regarded. The blonde and somewhat gruff physician had saved Dickie's father's life after the elder baron had suffered a heart attack. Baron Merton never forgot the man who saved his life; his son would never forget the physician's daughter either.
The first time he saw her she appeared at the door of the waiting room, wearing a white nurse's uniform. Her hair done primly into a near bun. "Your father," she spoke softly, "he will be all right."
"Thank the Lord," Dickie breathed, massaging his temples.
"He needs rest, but he should be fine," the nurse continued. "You look like you could use a rest as well," she added, noting the young man's tired eyes. "Would you like a cup of coffee or tea? I wouldn't mind fetching you one."
Her brown eyes were kind, yet knowing – as if she had seen far more than anyone her age had yet to imagine.
"Thank you," Dickie spoke, "tea would be appreciated."
"I'll be back then." And she was gone.
She returned as quick as she had left with a piping hot cup of sweet tea in her hand. "This should settle your nerves," she said plainly.
He accepted the drink, taking a long, slow sip. "Thank you, Nurse…" he waited for her to supply her name.
"Turnbull," she answered. "Isobel Turnbull."
"Richard Merton," he supplied. "Though everyone calls me Dickie. I owe your, I assume, father a debt of gratitude.
"Doctor Turnbull is my father, yes," the young woman acknowledged proudly. "He's taught me everything I know."
"You must know quite a bit then," Dickie mentioned. "You seem so young to be working here."
"I've watched father for as long as I can remember," Isobel replied. "And I've seen more than my fair share of medical emergencies. One tends to pick up quite a few things," she winked. She looked at the clock on the wall. "As much as I enjoyed our chat, I should be making my rounds. I have more patients to check on."
Dickie looked up at her. "Far be it from me to keep you then," he smiled. "Thank you again for the tea. I suppose I will see you around for a while Nurse Turnbull, at least while my father is here."
"I'll be here," she chimed as she headed out the door.
She's a bright one, Dickie thought. A bit of good cheer in this horrible place. He looked around the hospital. Yes, she must brighten some spirts here. She certainly brightened mine.
As Dickie visited his father every day, so too did he see this Nurse Turnbull. Their conversations grew longer each passing day, and a friendship formed.
She was intelligent, quick-witted, well-read, and solidly middle-class.
She's not the typical lady concerned with appearances; Dickie mused. He had seen this nurse with sweat on her brow and blood on her apron. She never shied away from a challenge it seemed. Definitely not someone concerned with the latest fashion, he thought. Certainly not like the vacant, vapid girls my mother tries to arrange for me.
Had Dickie only known at the time that he would fall in love with her, he would have saved himself the trouble and never talked to her, never continued to meet with her.
He wished he had never met Isobel Turnbull.
But, at the same time, if he had not met her that day in the hospital, he never would have had a female friend, never would have anyone to discuss medicine or politics or other topics deemed unsuitable for a future lord of an estate. For Cavenham Park would be his one day, and his father expected Dickie to take his place in managing the big house.
Dickie would have liked to pursue medicine, but knew that would never be accepted.
And now Dickie found himself walking towards the Turnbull home at his father's request. The elder Baron Merton thought it was necessary for someone in the family to attend the engagement party of the daughter of the man who saved his life.
Dickie wished he could be anywhere else in the world.
He did not want to let Isobel go, though he never admitted his true feelings for her. He couldn't – not when she smiled so brightly and laughed so deeply when she first met Reginald Crawley.
She was well suited to this newly minted physician. What right did Dickie Merton have to intervene? He knew she would never be happy as some great lady of an estate, nor would he have been allowed to pursue a career that he thought would provide him so semblance of usefulness.
They were not well-matched, or, at least, that was what Dickie thought.
And so, he knew that he would have to break off their friendship. He knew he could not see her with another man. It would destroy him. He had already asked Ada to marry him; the match would suit his parents anyways.
He fumbled with the neatly wrapped package he held in his arms. It was a gift for her. At the very least, he wanted her to have something that she could remember him by.
But, my goodness, how he did not want to go to her engagement party. To see her so happy, so beautiful, dressed to the nines for someone other than him.
He had asked her earlier if she would agree to meet him privately in her father's garden. She did not mind.
She was sitting by her father's rose bushes in the back garden. She wore a sheer muslin dress, one that suited her form. The long sleeves were of a fine silk, the dress worth more than any she had previously owned. Her father insisted upon this particular one – a fitting gift for his only daughter. The dress was pale blue, a shade that complimented her honey-colored hair and brown orbs. She never thought herself a great beauty, but she did feel attractive in this dress.
Isobel was thinking about Reginald Crawley. The man had made her so happy. She was sick with love, dizzy with the intensity of having someone so like her in many ways to share her life. He smoothed out her sharp edges. Her temper lessened when he was near.
She also thought of Dickie Merton. She wondered what he thought about her. She was certainly fond of him. He had become a great friend of hers, but she did not know if she could love him. Of one thing that she was certain was a union between the two could never work.
They were too different; their lives were being pulled in two vastly different directions. Isobel knew Dickie would never relinquish his title for her, nor did she want him too. Family was important to her, and she could not let Dickie give his up for her.
And she loved Reginald. With every fiber of her being, she loved Reginald.
Remaining friends with Dickie Merton would be enough, she decided.
But it was not enough for Dickie.
Dickie winded his way through the guests in the Turnbull house to find Isobel sitting on a white iron bench near the roses. She was smelling the flowers in the precise location where she told him to find her.
She looks beautiful. It was the only thought that occupied his mind.
He approached her cautiously, coughing to capture her attention.
She looked up. "I told you I would be here," she remarked, the corners of her mouth rising.
He nodded. "Will you walk with me?" He asked – a lump in his throat forming.
She shook her head and stood, taking his offered arm. He secured the package tightly under his other arm. They walked to a willow tree that had stood in the garden for as long as Isobel could remember.
"Are you happy, Isobel?" Dickie inquired.
"Quite," she responded. "Are you?"
"I'm not sure," he replied honestly.
"Why not?" she asked, searching his eyes.
His stomach flipped. He wondered if he should voice the truth – just admit his feelings – tell her his heart.
He decided against it. He wanted to depart from her, and he wanted it to be as quick and as painless as possible.
"I think our friendship has reached its end," he whispered, releasing a breath he had not realized he had been holding.
Her eyes went wide. The shock evident upon her face. "Why do you say that, Dickie?"
He released her arm and scuffed his shoe against the dirt. If he could bury himself now, he would have. "We are both getting married, leading separate lives," he stated plainly.
"That doesn't mean we cannot be friends," she said, reaching to touch his shoulder.
He brushed her hand away. "We are from different worlds, Isobel. You will be a doctor's wife. I am to become a lord of a great estate. What would we have in common?" He attempted to sharpen his tone with her, finding himself failing at the effort.
"We have been friends for over a year now – ever since that day in the hospital when your father had his heart attack. Why end it now?" She noticed him pushing her away, and it hurt – more than she would admit to herself. She continued to walk around the garden
He met her eyes then. "You know why."
She stopped short. She wondered, yes, all the time, she wondered. She never really knew though. "But you are marrying Ada," she insisted.
"Out of duty," he admitted freely.
"I see," Isobel said. She looked back at the house, hearing the guests laugh and watching the party continue. She could not meet his eyes. "So, that's it then," she remarked. "Are we not to see each other anymore?"
"No," Dickie affirmed. His voice did not waver. "I can't, Isobel. And you know why – if you would look just past the end of your nose. I know you love Reginald – there's no denying it. I can't be here to witness that. I know you're his. I won't come between that. So, I must cut you off, as it were."
"I do love Reginald," she said softly. "Very much." Her eyes continued to watch the house. Then, she turned her attention back to Dickie. "But I still don't understand."
He wished he could just tell her he loved her. To see her eyes this lost, this utterly confused pained him.
"Isn't our friendship enough?" she asked, practically pleading.
"It is and it isn't," Dickie replied.
"You're speaking in riddles," Isobel remarked. "Could you just tell me plainly? Why have you come to this decision?"
Dickie chuckled. "You're always so very forthright. Let's just leave it for now." He produced the package from under his arm, hoping to distract her from this most unpleasant of conversations. "I have a gift for you – an engagement present if you like. One to say goodbye." He handed her the wrapped parcel.
"I wish you wouldn't have done," Isobel commented as she unwrapped the package.
She pulled out a rich hunter green cloak. A mantle – made from the smoothest velvet, soft to the touch and luxurious. She put it around her shoulders. "It's beautiful," she whispered, pulling the hood over her head and pressing her cheek into the fabric.
"Why a mantle?" she asked, bringing the hood back down to her shoulders.
Dickie chuckled. "You always remind me of one of those romantic heroines. A young maiden walking the moors – a tower of strength, but one who needs something to warm her. I thought this cloak would do just that."
Isobel giggled. "You do wax poetic at times, don't you?"
He touched her cheek at that moment. "It suits you."
She then removed the mantle. Folding it, she attempted to hand it back to Dickie. "But I can't accept the gift," she remarked. "Not if you are so willing to cast aside our friendship."
Dickie pushed the cloak back at her. He placed his hands over hers as she held the cloak. "Keep it," he said firmly. "To remember me by, if nothing else."
Isobel met his eyes. "This is really goodbye then?"
"It is."
"I still don't understand," she voiced. "Is it something I have done or said?"
Dickie smiled. "No," he replied. "Never. It's just what is best." He rubbed his hands together. "Well, best be going," he said quickly. "I've got to meet Ada this evening," he proffered as an excuse. "Goodbye, Isobel Turnbull." He looked back at her one last time as he walked away.
She sucked in another breath. "Goodbye, Dickie," she said, brushing away a tear that he did not see. In the next instance, Isobel composed herself. She tucked the mantle in under her arm and returned to the party.
Inside, she found Reginald talking to her father and joined him. Linking arms with her fiancé, she rested her head on his shoulder.
"What's wrong, my dearest one?" Reginald asked, noticing she seemed a bit downtrodden.
"Oh, nothing," she answered. "Though, I fear I may have lost a friend today."
"Really?" Reginald rubbed the small of her back. "At our engagement party?" He seemed dumbfounded. "Today is meant to be a happy day for you."
"It is, love," she replied, leaning into him.
"Who has dampened your spirit then?" Reginald continued to probe.
"It doesn't matter anymore," she muttered.
Reginald knew when his fiancé no longer wanted to discuss a topic. He decided to change the subject, but, unbeknownst to him, he continued to bring up a difficult subject, asking difficult questions. He noticed the green mantle she clutched. "It's a beautiful garment," Reginald said, looking at the mantle in her arms. "Is it an engagement present?"
"A gift, yes," Isobel said softly.
"It's very beautiful. Must have cost a fortune as fine as it is," Reginald commented.
"Hmmm…" Isobel had been miles away, thinking about Dickie's goodbye. "Yes, I suppose it must have," she finally replied.
"Suits you," Reginald responded, noticing the fine color against his Isobel's skin. "It will keep you warm enough, I daresay."
"I doubt I'll ever wear it," she answered honestly. "Just a thoughtful gift. I don't even know if I'll keep it."
"Oh," Reginald began, "keep it, love." He placed a kiss on her cheek. "You never know. You may decide to wear it one day. At the very least, you can put it in the back of your wardrobe to remember our engagement party."
"Perhaps," Isobel said. "Perhaps," she repeated. "I suppose I must keep it."
Though I don't know if I want to remember the scene that this will remind me of, she thought to herself as she looked down at the garment.
"It is very fine though, isn't it?" She remarked to Reginald.
"Beautiful indeed," Reginald said, "just like you."