Dr. Richard Clarkson stood on the stoop of Crawley House with a bouquet of bright flowers in one hand, hoping their vibrancy would leak into the life of his favorite nurse. His other hand rested, balled in a fist, against the rich mahogany of the door. He took a deep breath and raised his fist only to lower it again, knocking three times, before stepping back and second guessing himself. It was of questionable propriety to stop by unannounced, but the doctor was sure it was unacceptable in any case to stop by unannounced at the home of a single, mourning woman. The more he thought about it, the more his visit began to feel like a mistake. He turned to leave, releasing another long breath in an attempt to expel his troubles.

The door squeaked and a timid voice came from the crack, "Dr. Clarkson?"

Instead of hearing the cold, curt voice of Mr. Mosley, the soothing diction of Isobel Crawley greeted him instead. That voice always brought a smile to his face, even when it's proper accent was like this, sloppy with sadness. He turned around to face her and saw red-rimmed eyes peeking out from behind the cracked door. Her sandy blonde hair had fallen from a mediocre attempt at a pinned-back look, and she was still in her robe as the afternoon sun lit up her features for, what he guessed by the closed curtains, was the first time that day.

"Ah, Good Afternoon Mrs. Crawley. I was on my way home from the hospital and thought I would stop by to make sure you were feeling quite all right,"

"Thank you," she squeaked softly, wiping her cheeks, and opening the door a little wider to invite him in, "Please come in,"

"Oh, I wouldn't want to impose. I just thought I'd bring you these as a token of my condolences," he offered the flowers to her with an extended arm.

"They're beautiful," she whispered, attempting a smile that fell short half-way. "Let me just put them in water,"

She opened the door wider and turned to walk down the hall, leaving her guest on the stoop. Assuming this was in invitation in, Dr. Clarkson followed, shutting the door behind him. The house was darker than he had ever seen it. The newly installed electricity was turned off, and there were no lamps lit. The only light in the home were the rays that escaped through the sheer curtains.

"I was unaware that today was Mosley's day off," he attempted to make small talk.

"Everyday is Mr. Mosley's day off. I gave him a vacation of sorts until his services were required again, and that time has not come yet," her tone turned snippy, but Richard was not offended. She deserved to be angry, and if he could help by serving as a target for her anger at life, then he felt honored.

She opened cabinet after cabinet looking in vain for a vase, slamming the doors as she went. Richard scanned the dark room with his eyes. Expensive china was piled up on the counter-top, dirty and stained with old food. "I assume you've let Mrs. Bird go as well?" he questioned softly.

"Why might you think that Doctor?" she said sarcastically, slamming another drawer. She leaned over the counter with both hands pushed hard against the cool surface and took a deep breath. Finally turning to face him she released more of her anger on the innocent loving man before her. "This is not the time to assess my lifestyle Dr. Clarkson, so if you've quite satisfied your desire to poke your nose into the pathetic life of a widowed woman mourning her only child, perhaps it's time for you to leave!" her tone rose with each word until she was yelling.

"I don't think your life is pathetic Isobel," her Christian name slipped through. He rarely addressed her this intimately outside of his dreams.

"Have the things you've seen not proved that? Or should I bring you into the drawing-room to see the settee I've been sleeping on? Or-Or perhaps if I told you that I've worn this robe for a week. Perhaps then you would be satisfied, then you would leave," her voice broke and fresh tears were rolling down her cheeks. She brought her lower lip between her teeth to stifle her sobs, as she held his gaze.

The room was silent as they stared into each other's eyes, the tension swimming in the air around them.

He shook his head slowly as he crossed the room to her, taking her hand in his. "Isobel," he used her name again, deciding that if there was line between them it had already been crossed, "You are the strongest woman I have ever known," he whispered, putting his other hand under her chin to look into her eyes.

She continued crying, as she shook her head, "No, I'm weak. I'm so weak," she whimpered.

He pulled her into a warm embrace, letting her tears stain his jacket. He had both arms wrapped around her as he rocked her softly back and forth.

"It's alright, I'm here. You can tell me," he cooed, his heart breaking for her. She was the only woman he had ever cared for this deeply, and seeing her like this made him angry. Angry at fate or the God that brought this upon the woman he loved.

Loved. Was that the word for this? he wondered. Another sob broke as the woman in his arms wrapped her shaky hands around him tightly. Yes, of course it was.

"Tell me Isobel, I'll listen," he said, stroking her hair.

"I'm- I'm just so- so tired," she let out between sobs.

He released her momentarily to crouch down and wrap an arm around the backside of her wobbly knees, putting the other around her waist, and scooping her into his arms gently. She clung to him, silently, knowing how improper this was but not caring for a second.

He carried her into the drawing-room, pushing on the wood of the door lightly to reveal the dimly lit, messy room. Blankets were piled atop the settee and old crusted-over tea cups sat upturned on the table in the middle of the room. He let her slide out of his arms onto the mess of quilts and throws. She automatically curled into a small ball, her sobs slowing.

He squatted beside her, pushing a piece of hair behind her ear, before cupping her cheek "Sleep now, my love," He stared into her red-rimmed warm chocolate eyes. She nodded weakly, squeezing her eyes shut. He ran the pad of his thumb over her smooth cheek and stood up to leave.

She snapped up quickly, watching him walk towards the door, "Don't go," she whispered weakly, slightly embarrassed at her request. He complied, coming back over to her and sitting on one end of the settee. She laid her head back down, this time in his lap as he began to run his fingers through her hair.

"You called me 'your love' Richard," she sleepily half-questioned.

Instead of answering he began to sing a soft song in his deep smooth voice, "O, my love is like a red, red rose, That's newly sprung in June. O, my love is like a melody..." It was an old Scottish song his mother had lulled him to sleep with as a child.

She closed her eyes and drifted into the first peaceful sleep she had known in weeks. Richard stared at the sleeping woman in his lap, she looked so peaceful and calm. Her beauty was captivating and he studied her every feature. The natural pink of her cheeks showing how she felt about this improper encounter, the lines around her eyes proving her years of strength, her soft curls that fell around her face and into his lap, and her plump crimson lips. He sat and wondered, wondered about her grief, wishing he could take it away. Wondered about those plump crimson lips, wishing he could lean down and capture them. And wondered if she would still want this intimacy they were sharing when she awoke.

Don't worry, there's more to come for them! Stay in touch for chapter two. Please review with your compliments and complaints. All characters and settings are owned by Julian Fellows.