November 1923
The evening had settled into its usual rhythm at Downton, the grand house now quieter after the clatter of dinner had died down. The low crackle of a fire filled the drawing room, casting a warm glow across the rich furniture. A few of the Crawley family members had already retired to bed, others talked in the library, but the Dowager Countess and Cousin Isobel had remained there enraptured with a competitive game of gin rummy.
Both women sat at a small table, a deck of Bicycle playing cards between the two. The familiar shuffle of cards was the only sound for a time, with the occasional ticking of a clock in the distance.
Isobel tried to focus on the game; her opponent was a masterful player. She watched carefully as Violet shuffled, though her movements were hesitant when she picked up her cards. Another losing hand, Isobel sighed. She never did have a good poker face.
"You're rather quiet tonight, Isobel," Violet remarked with a sly glance, placing a card down onto the table with deliberate precision.
"I am going to beat you at least once before I call it an evening." Isobel smirked as she discarded.
"I doubt that," Violet whispered under her breath. She looked at the card, gleefully taking Isobel's discard. "I don't recall you being so distracted during our games before. You are playing right into my hand."
Isobel huffed, clearly flustered. "It's nothing, really," she replied reluctantly.
"I don't believe you," the Dowager remarked, her eyes peering up from her cards. "You've had something on your mind all night, my dear, and I daresay it has nothing to do with your hand of cards."
Isobel hesitated at first, her fingers playing with the corner of her deck, but there was no way around it, Violet could see right through her. And if she could count on anyone for candid conversation, it was the Dowager. With a resigned sigh, Isobel set her cards down gently on the table.
"I suppose you're right, Violet," she said, her voice quieter now. "I've been…thinking about something. Or rather someone."
"And I suppose that someone would be Lord Merton?"
Isobel glanced at her lap, looking rather dejected. "He proposed to me earlier this month."
Violet's eyebrows shot up, clearly surprised. "And…why have you not said anything until now? Surely, we should be celebrating. He is a kind man; I've always liked him."
Isobel nodded, but her lips twisted slightly. "He is good, yes. I admire him greatly, Violet. But…I…I turned him down."
"You…you turned him down?" Violet leaned forward in her chair, a mix of surprise and confusion washed over her. "I wondered when he would ever work up the gumption to ask you. And now you have turned him down! Why for heaven's sake? What made you do that?"
The weight of her decision seemed to settle in her chest. "I -" Isobel stopped, gathering her thoughts. "I care for him. I do. But I could not bring myself to accept him. Not with his sons. I do not want to be seen as an intruder in his family."
The Dowager studied her for a long moment, her stare never wavering. She took in a sharp breath, setting her cards down on the table with deliberate care. "You allowed his sons to dictate your choice? You know I am rather surprised at you."
Isobel winced at her words, feeling the sting more than she expected. "I couldn't ignore it. His sons are openly hostile toward me. I don't want to spend his last years in constant battle, making him choose between me and his children. It would be unfair to us all."
Violet's lips pressed into a thin line as she absorbed her friend's words. For a long time, she said nothing, her eyes flickering to the firelight as if considering the matter deeply. Finally, she spoke, her voice soft but no less sharp. "I understand your concerns, Isobel. But…I do not think that is the only reason." She met Isobel's eyes, as if forcing her to listen. "You're afraid. And it's not like you to let fear hold you back."
"Fear doesn't always show itself in the way we think. Sometimes, it's both the weight of the past and the unknown of the future that holds us down," Isobel said softly, her voice tinged with sadness.
"What do you mean?" Violet asked quietly.
Sighing deeply, Isobel glanced at the fireplace. "Do you remember when I told you about the engagement present Lord Merton gave to me?"
"Yes, you told me you donated that cloak a long time ago," Violet replied.
"Well, that's not entirely true," Isobel murmured.
"You kept it," Violet did a double-take. "All these years? You said it was just an odd present, one that had no special meaning. But you've kept it all this time. Surely, there must be a reason for it." The Dowager huffed, clearly not used to being kept out of the loop and lied to outright.
"Yes," Isobel whispered, almost to herself, "I lied to you about it. I said it was nothing. But that mantle - it meant something. Reginald told me to keep it, and I did. For all of these years it has sat in the back of my closet until recently."
"You could never quite forget him…all of those years ago?" Violet supplied, glancing up at Isobel.
"No," Isobel smiled. "The cloak was a reminder of him, what he meant to me…our past."
"That's a heavy thing to carry, Isobel," the Dowager replied gently. "To keep something that long…to carry it for so many years."
"I know." She looked at the fireplace, though her thoughts were miles away, stretching further back in her mind. "When Reginald and I married, I was so in love, so happy. And…I guess I did not see that someone else loved me too, or perhaps, refused to see it." She bit her lower lip, blinking back tears that threatened to fall. "And it broke my heart when he never saw me again, so I kept that mantle to remind myself of that - the hurt, the pain, the friendship, what could have been, I suppose. And now I gather that I understand his reasoning…I broke his heart too. He knew how happy Reg made me. He could not come between that, just like I now cannot come between him and his sons."
"And you are making a mistake now, just as he had back then," Violet said sagely. "He did not see you for years, and every moment he regretted it, just like you will now. Even if he would not come between you and Reg, he wanted to be friends, but he let fear dictate otherwise. My dear, you are too selfless. I've always marveled at your ability to think of others, but there are moments when you must think of yourself, when you must choose happiness."
"But, everything just keeps rushing back, whenever I am near him. I don't know what I am supposed to do. He's unwell, and I don't want to be the cause of any more discord. I figure it is best to just bury everything. Remain friends, and that is enough," Isobel said with finality, though her gaze lowered, feeling the quiet ache in her chest.
The Dowager gave a short, dry laugh. "The heart does not follow logic. It follows feelings, no matter how hard you try to ignore them. Isobel, you've spent so many years protecting yourself from hurt. But, in doing so, you build walls that only trap you. You can't live in fear of complications - that is what makes life interesting."
Isobel felt the weight of Violet's words pressing down on her. "I've been so afraid. Afraid of making a fool of myself. Afraid of feeling. Afraid of hoping, and then having it all fall apart again." The words tumbled out. "But now…now, it feels as though I've let an opportunity slip away."
Violet's gaze softened, her voice less cutting than before. "Maybe. But nothing is ever truly lost. You may have passed up a chance now, but you've not slammed the door. That mantle, the way you've held onto it….it's a sign, Isobel. Perhaps, it's time to dust it off and bring it out of your wardrobe."
Isobel looked at the Dowager, her heart heavy, but there was something in Violet's words that sparked a tiny flicker of hope. "Do you really think so?"
"If Lord Merton's affections are true, he may just find a way to show you that he is worth the fight. Sometimes the things that frighten us the most are the very things worth reaching for." Violet gave her friend a knowing smile, a wink that seemed to say that everything would work out.
Isobel nodded slowly, though a part of her still clung to the uncertainty that had guided her decision.
As the fire crackled softly and the game of cards resumed, both women settled back into a companionable silence. And though the evening would soon come to an end, Isobel could not help but feel that something had shifted within her.
…
Isobel Crawley stood by the small window at the village hospital. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and the world seemed to be settling into that peaceful haze that so often accompanied the end of a long day. She had come to the hospital early that morning, updating patient charts and looking over financial forms.
The room around her hummed with the usual noise of hospital life - the quiet conversations of staff and the shuffle of a cart down the hallway. But Isobel barely noticed. Her thoughts had been consumed with the same issue for months: Lord Merton.
She had convinced herself that she had made the right choice - perhaps, the only choice. Her decision to turn him down had been carefully thought through, until that is, the Dowager made her rethink everything.
Dickie had been kind, steady, and beyond patient, offering her a second chance at love. But she had turned him away. Not out of lack of affection - no, she did care for him - but out of fear. Fear that her heart would never truly be hers again if she gave into him.
And he had accepted her decision. There was no bitterness, no anger, but the disappointment was etched on the lines in his face.
She had thought, in the months following, that she had lost her chance.
But that was before…and this was now.
Was she truly ready to give her heart to someone? Would he even offer her another chance? Sitting in the dim light of the evening, she was not so sure.
She pushed those thoughts away. After all, there was no point in dwelling on it. She had to live with her decision. Tell that to my heart, she thought.
The sound of the ambulance crew bursting through the staff entrance startled her.
The drivers wheeled a stretcher inside, the urgency in their movements unmistakable. Their hurried voices carried through the door before it even fully opened.
"We need Doctor Clarkson, now!" one of them called out. "Heart attack, male, late sixties."
She immediately stepped forward to assist, her instincts kicking in. But the moment she caught sight of the man, her blood ran cold.
Her breath caught in her throat, and her mind went blank. No, it can't be.
The crew wheeled him into a room where Doctor Clarkson quickly connected him to a large electrocardiogram machine, newly purchased for the hospital. Isobel followed close behind.
Nurses were already working furiously to stabilize the patient.
His face was ashen, his eyes closed, and his breathing shallow.
Dickie.
She blinked rapidly, trying to process what she was seeing. Her heart lurched. Not again.
Her hand flew to her mouth as the room spun. The memories of Reginald flooded back - the terror, the helplessness, the sense of drowning in a nightmare she could never escape. Now, it was happening to Dickie. And she, once again, felt powerless.
Her mind scrambled for control as her legs moved on their own accord, carrying her to his side.
"Mrs. Crawley, please step back," a nurse's voice was calm, but firm, as she placed a gentle hand on Isobel's shoulder.
But Isobel could not step back. She had to be there. She needed to know that he was going to be okay.
She was not useless, not this time.
Listening to Doctor Clarkson, she began to take Dickie's blood pressure, carefully looking at her watch as she counted his heart beats as well.
Hours passed as they worked tirelessly. Doctor Clarkson was cautiously optimistic, but Isobel could see the strain on his face. After what felt like an eternity, he approached her. "Nurse Crawley," he said, his voice quiet, "he's stable for now. But we will need to monitor him closely. We've administered the necessary treatment, but it's still critical. He's not out of the woods yet."
She nodded, her throat tight. "How are his hemoglobin levels?" She asked, thinking critically.
"He's anemic, I know," Doctor Clarkson gave her a small, exhausted sigh, "we're still waiting for the results. It's certainly complicated things. His anemia is likely contributing to his body's inability to handle the strain of the heart attack. But the heart attack itself, while serious, doesn't appear to be life-threatening in the long run."
Isobel let the words sink in. "And the anemia? It is pernicious," she insisted.
"Let's just see what the tests say," Doctor Clarkson replied. "You need to get some rest," he added, looking at her worried face.
Isobel nodded, but she could barely hear his words. She would not leave Dickie's side. "I'll stay here, if you don't mind. There's a chair in the corner. It's comfortable enough. And someone needs to monitor him."
"Very well." Doctor Clarkson knew when he was fighting a losing battle with Isobel and left the room.
She took the few steps over to Dickie's bed. He was still pale, and she let out a shaky breath. Sitting by his side, she took his hand gently in her own. His fingers felt cold against hers, and she closed her eyes for a brief moment, gathering herself.
This was Dickie, the man who had so earnestly offered his love to her, who had hoped they might share a life together. And now he was lying on the bed, fighting for his life, while she had turned him away. She had rejected him. What if this was it? Facing the stark reality of his life hanging in the balance, she realized what she could lose.
A tight knot formed in her throat. She felt tears threaten to fall, but she held them back.
"Dickie," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I'm so sorry, so very sorry. I was afraid, Dickie. Afraid of opening my heart again." She paused, swallowing a lump in her throat. "I've wasted so much time thinking…"
His fingers stirred in her hand, and she looked down at him as his eyes fluttered open, his voice hoarse but still unmistakably him.
"Isobel?" he murmured weakly. "What…What am I doing here?"
"Oh, Dickie," she breathed. "You've had a heart attack. You were rushed here…"
He blinked, trying to process the information, his brow furrowing. "A heart attack?" He let out a weak laugh. "Well, that's one way to get your attention."
Isobel gave him a wry smile, though her heart was heavy. "It certainly worked." She squeezed his hand as tears welled in her eyes. "You know you gave me quite a fright. I thought -"
His fingers brushed against her knuckles. "Don't," he said softly. "I'm not dead yet."
For a long moment, they simply sat in silence as he closed his eyes, the steady rhythm of his breath and the soft hum of the hospital around them the only sounds.
Isobel stared down at their intertwined hands, feeling the weight of unspoken words, of love denied. She could not bring herself to admit it yet. But in her heart, she knew.
The more she sat there with him, the more she realized how much we wanted to take that risk.
"Rest, Dickie," she said quietly. "You're going to be alright."
He nodded, listening to her voice; his grip on her hand slackened as he drifted back to sleep.
She stayed by his side, her mind swirling with everything she had yet to say, everything she was still holding back.
…
A few weeks later, Dickie had been moved to a small private room for observation. Doctor Clarkson was optimistic about his long-term prognosis, but there were still complications to navigate. Ever the steadfast nurse, Isobel sat by Dickie's bedside everyday as he recovered, checking his blood pressure and monitoring his breathing.
Yet, as she watched him grow stronger, her heart grew heavier. The strain of her decision weighed down on her in ways she did not know how to explain. She told herself that, after he recovered, things could return to how they were - that they could be friends - that she could just ignore the feeling in her heart. She could slip back into the familiar pattern of being the caring nurse, the kind companion - but never the partner.
Never the wife.
Maybe one day she would find the words to tell him, but it was not today.
She stood now by his bedside, gently dabbing some antiseptic on his hand where she had just given him some medicine. Her eyes were soft with concern. It had been a long haul, but his strength returned bit by bit, as had his spirits.
Doctor Clarkson entered the room with a decisive step, his brow furrowed in concentration. He held a small piece of paper in his hand, and his demeanor seemed unusually serious.
"Good morning, Lord Merton, Mrs. Crawley," he greeted them both.
Sitting up in bed, Dickie turned his gaze toward him, his eyes alert, though his face was still pale.
"I've been reviewing your most recent blood draws, Lord Merton," Doctor Clarkson began, "and I think it's time we addressed something we've been suspecting for a while."
"What do you mean, Doctor?" Lord Merton raised an eyebrow.
"Well, it seems that the pernicious anemia, of which you were initially diagnosed, was not the true cause of your weakness."
Isobel's heart skipped a beat, her hand unconsciously went to Dickie's arm, sensing the tension in his body.
"What?" Dickie asked, his voice uncertain.
"It's a good thing. It means you do not have pernicious anemia," Doctor Clarkson smiled.
Dickie looked utterly confused, his eyes widening in surprise. "But I've been taking medication…" he trailed off, his mind struggling to make sense of it.
"I believe, Lord Merton, that you were misdiagnosed," Doctor Clarkson continued, "Harley Street may have expensive and more modern practices, but that does not mean they are immune from making a mistake." Doctor Clarkson could not help the smugness. After all, money did not make up for experience. "The weakness you've been experiencing, the fatigue, the pallor - those symptoms stemmed from your heart." He paused, letting the information sink in. "But, your heart now is being treated. You will make a full recovery from the attack. Your anemia is much more easily managed than first assumed. It's iron-deficiency anemia."
Isobel blinked rapidly. "Iron deficiency?" she echoed, glancing at Lord Merton. The surprise was evident in her expression, but there was also something else.
Relief.
Doctor Clarkson nodded. "Yes. Lord Merton, your body has not been able to absorb enough iron, which contributed to the fatigue. But with the right supplements and a change in diet, we can correct this. I believe that within a few weeks, you should start to feel considerably better."
Lord Merton stared at Doctor Clarkson, his eyes searching for something to explain the unexpected turn of events. But all he could muster was a weak laugh, as if in disbelief.
"Well, that is news to me," Dickie said, his voice tired but tinged with a spark of amusement. "I have a heart attack and then find out that I am, in fact, not dying."
"I think you'll be back to your old self in no time," Doctor Clarkson responded.
"This is a welcome relief, Doctor Clarkson," Isobel spoke, her heart lightening. Her smile was tender as she looked down at Dickie.
"Well, I will leave you to it, Nurse Crawley. I'll have the necessary prescriptions sent up shortly," Doctor Clarkson nodded and left the room.
Dickie let out a relieved sigh. "Thank the Lord," he breathed, a smile tugging at his lips as he stretched in the bed. He looked at Isobel who had taken her usual seat next to his bedside. "Isobel, I am sorry to worry you. This whole time…I didn't mean to…I didn't want you to think that I was going to -"
"Don't," she interrupted quickly, her heart hammering in her chest. "Don't talk like that. We've had good news today."
He watched her with those soft eyes that had always seemed to understand her, even when she didn't understand herself. She was beautiful to him. She looked tired; her hair was pinned back and her nurse's apron slightly wrinkled. She wore her burgundy skirt and a simple matching long sleeved shirt. He studied her. She had been here for him; all these weeks, she had been here.
It must mean something.
"Thank you, Isobel," he finally spoke.
"For what?"
"For being here with me," Dickie said simply. "You didn't have to, you know."
She squeezed his hand gently. "I didn't want you to be alone, Dickie," she replied, her voice thick as if the weight of all her unspoken feelings pressed down on her chest. "I'm sorry, Dickie." She looked into his eyes, wondering if he understood.
His smile faltered as he breathed deeply. He looked away from her. "You were honest with me. I cannot fault you for that."
"But I was afraid," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes, "I don't want to lose you. I can't…"
He reached up, brushing the tear from her cheek. "You haven't lost me," he said softly. "Not yet." His hand guided her chin to look at him. "Isobel Crawley," he whispered hoarsely. "I've waited for you all this time. I'll wait as long as it takes."
His words echoed in her ears. Despite the way she had rejected him, despite the fear he must have felt, wondering if she would ever change her mind, despite everything, he still wanted her.
She was not sure how to answer him.
Isobel looked down at him. But the words caught in her throat, too raw, too real to speak. Instead, she simply squeezed his hand and whispered, "I'm here, now. And I'm not going anywhere."
His eyes softened, and he smiled knowingly. "That's all I need to hear," he replied, bringing her hand to his lips.
As she sat by his side, her hand holding his, she realized that perhaps the hardest thing to admit was not the fact that she was afraid - it was that she wanted him too. But was it worth the risk? Could she tear down those walls that guarded her heart?
Not yet.
And there, in that small hospital room, the world outside seemed to disappear for a moment, and Isobel allowed herself to hope that there was still time for them. That they could still have that chance she had almost thrown away.
December 1991
"So the old lady was right on the money again," Jack mused. "Isobel is letting fear drive her decisions." He leaned back in his chair seated next to Liz.
"Well, that figures," Liz muttered. "I mean she's already lost so much. Sometimes it's easier to let sleeping dogs lie, as the saying goes." She looked into the large trunk, thumbing through old documents, marriage certificates, birth announcements, the Crawley past…her past.
"Wait, Liz," Matthew said as he stood over his sister's shoulder. "You thumb too fast." He grabbed a few of the documents. "See," he said triumphantly, holding an old paper, yellowing from age. "We know this story has a happy ending. It's their marriage certificate."
"Let me see that," George motioned for his grandson to bring him the document. "Yes, so it is."
"So, now that I know that Dickie is not, in fact, dying," Jack began looking at the older gentleman resting on his chair, "why didn't Isobel just tell him at the hospital?"
"Yeah, Granddad, why not? I mean she almost witnessed him die of a heart attack. I thought that would be reason enough for her to say 'Hey I love you.' She should have shouted it to the rooftops," Matthew exclaimed. He was never one for subtlety. "I mean if I just saw someone I love near death, I would pour my heart out."
George chuckled. "You say what's on your mind, my boy. Women are more complicated creatures."
"Am I going to have to explain again?" Liz rolled her eyes.
Jack nodded. "Well, wouldn't you tell me that you love me if I was lying in the hospital?" He shot his wife a look.
"I am not going to deign that question with a response," she laughed, knowing, of course, she would tell him. "Isobel probably feels like the timing is not right. She does not want to risk her heart, but she cannot risk losing Dickie either. And Lord Merton knows, he understands, even if Isobel doesn't think he could. He will wait for her." Liz stretched her hands over her head, giving a contended yawn. "It's really quite romantic when you think about it."
"But is Dickie willing to wait forever…" Matthew interjected.
"And will she ever dust off that old mantle," Jack added.
"Oh, yes," Liz's eyes went wide. "I almost forgot. She lied to Dickie about this cloak," she said as she smoothed over the garment she held in her hands. "So…how does she ever tell him about that…"
"Shall I continue the story?" George wondered aloud, a knowing twinkle in his eye.
Hello dear readers! I hope you are still enjoying this story. Please leave me a review and let me know your thoughts. I'm so glad I picked up this story again. I had forgotten how much I love writing. It's been such a relief to just sit down, let my mind wonder, and type away. And, of course, I have been listening to "Her Mantle So Green," on replay. Haha! You probably know by now that I get my best ideas when listening to music, and have a song for almost every story (or chapter). Anyhow, hope you like it.