Hello, this is the AU I've been promising you all. This may be a rather slow writing process as I haven't finished the story yet and will probably need to do research so that this story is at least plausible. But I hope you enjoy it anyway. The chronology of the present might vaguely follow the plot of series 1 but it won't be able to do it rigidly, and nor do I want it to. I'm sort of crazy-nervous about this so I'd really appreciate a review.

1912

Isobel Crawley arrived in Downton on a mild morning, in bright light from the sun as it neared midday, with just a hint of chill in the air.

He could not believe his eyes when he first saw her.

Of course, he had already known that it was going to be her. As soon as he heard her name, given the circumstances of her arrival. How many widows called Isobel Crawley from Manchester had sons called Matthew? If there were two he would have been genuinely surprised. It had to be her. If he hadn't known, in his heart, that it was going to be her, he would have hardly hovered in the close vicinity of his office window all morning, where he could see all the way down Downton High Street to the door to Crawley House, kidding himself that he was not waiting for the car to pass. He had waited for her arrival with a feeling of such excited unease that disturbed him all day and left him awake all night for nights on end, tangled up in his sheets, eyes wide in the darkness, seeing nothing but images from the distant past which rose effortlessly, alarmingly vivid.

That it was her, his Isobel- he hardly dared to think of like that, but still that rebellious voice rose inside him- did not surprise him, but the way that she was did. He saw her descend from the car, helped by a young man who was taller than her, who must have been her son. He had never met Matthew Crawley before. He saw even from the distance that she bowed her head for a moment as she got out of the car, completely elegant in such a careless way. She was wearing a vivid burgundy coat and hat, so much like the woman remembered. When he had known her, dressed almost constantly in cool white clothes or uniform under the African heat, she had complained that she looked the same as every other woman in sight, she felt like a machine. Of course, she never had done, never, not to him. She could never be the same as anyone else.

And the case was the same when he saw her more closely, when she passed his window at the hospital, peering at the building. He did not think she saw him watching, she seemed to be on her way somewhere. She was exactly the same as he remembered her. Her face a little more lined, perhaps, and grey starting to show in her hair, but apart from that she was completely unchanged. Everything that mattered was the same; the angle at which she held her head, the way she walked, the look dancing in her eyes, the look that had completely beaten him in so many ways all those years ago. She was still so Isobel. What else had he expected? Why should she have changed?

The woman he had loved- and loved so strongly, like an ache, loved entirely, completely- was unchanged, unaltered, and had walked back into his life as coolly and collectedly as she always was. The realisation hit him like a tidal wave; a relief and a solid smack in the face both at the same time. The woman he had loved, had kissed, had held in his arms, the woman whose ringed fingers he had held in his, the woman who had-... His heart pounded and his throat constricted at the very thought. In truth, he had never thought he'd see her again. He had never expected to. He thought he'd die, never having seen her again; he'd thought he'd seen her eyes, her beautiful smile for the last time on this earth. And he was able to live with that. Almost. But he was not prepared, in any way, for this, in spite of his premonitions. He was not ready for Isobel Crawley again, after all they'd been though together- or not together, as the case may more accurately have been.

These thoughts rose ever more frequently in his mind. Every time he saw her figure in the street, or heard her name mentioned his memories seemed to overpower him. He wondered if it would be presumptuous of him to call on her, decided that it would, and decided against it. Anyway, if he hadn't had the courage to write to her in nearly ten years, he supposed a home visit would probably be out of the question. But what if she fell ill? Not that she had ever shown signs of a weak constitution when he knew her, but then he would not be able to avoid seeing her. Or what if her son, or one of the family at the house, and she was there when it happened-...?

In the end he was spared this interminable deliberation and conjecture by a message from Lady Grantham, which told him exactly how they would finally meet.

Cousin Isobel, she wrote, had shown great interest in helping at the hospital in any way she could, and would it be agreeable to him if she called around to introduce herself the day after tomorrow? He smiled to himself at Lady Grantham's choice of words, thinking how little introduction this woman needed. But he sent a note back with the driver nevertheless saying that it was certainly agreeable, and that he looked forward to it.

In a way it was almost true. For the next few days, he felt like a child counting down to Christmas. He could hardly wait to see Isobel in person, though the thought terrified him so much that it almost brought him out in a cold sweat.

The day dawned warmer than the day she had arrived. He woke with the first light, rising well on time to make sure he could have a bath and a decent shave. He was at the hospital earlier than usual, though she had sent a message saying that she would not be there until after lunchtime. Her writing was tidier than he remembered. He knew it had got tidier. He still had her letters, the notes they'd sent each other, the ones he'd sent to her too. He remembered distinctly.

"Please keep my letters for me. I don't want my husband to find them."

"But he knows."

"Even so. I don't think it would be very kind to risk letting him find them."

He had agreed, thinking that he would keep them forever, thinking that she would never see them again. Well, he was not so certain of that now. Of course he was, he thought angrily, just because he was going to see her again was no guarantee that things could ever be like they were. It would be foolish to think that. Very foolish. The best part of his morning was passed like this, wasted in furious, infuriating quarrels with himself, with his own conscious and memory.

In the end, she arrived at about two o'clock. She arrived on foot, not by car. Seeing her approach from the window, he raced out of his office and down the corridor, brushing down his coat as he went, making it more creased than anything else.

He opened the door just in time to see her coming up the hospital steps. She raised her head at the sound of the catch. They stood still for a moment, just looking at each other, his hand on the door. Her lips parted a little in surprise.

"Hello."

"Hello, Mrs Crawley," he stepped forwards, holding out his hand for her.

She shook it firmly, still wearing her gloves her eyes on his face.

"It's good to see you," he told her nervously, "And quite a surprise to find out you're going to be living here."

"Yes, it was rather," she agreed, "I'm surprised you recognise me."

"It's only been ten years," he told her, without really thinking about how dismissive that could sound, "What I mean is, I would know you anywhere."

She gave him a small smile at that, and made a small sound that sounded like clearing her throat.

"I really would like to help," she told him, "If you've room for me."

"We have room for all the competent help we can get," he admitted.

"That's good," she replied.

There was a moment's pause.

"Do come in," he told her, realising that they were still standing on the front step, and though they had let go of each other's hand, their fingers had not moved far away from each other, "Would you like me to show you around?"

"Yes, I would like that," she told him, stepping inside before him while he held the door open for her.

…...

All in all their tour lasted about two hours, though the hospital was not large. They took their time, discussing things as they went, and she asked many intelligent questions.

They stopped naturally at the end of the main corridor, observing from a distance the progress of some younger nurse's carrying equipment towards the store. They smiled as they passed them, and once they had gone, Isobel turned her head towards Richard, watching his face for a moment, in a look he was almost too nervous to return, kindly as it was.

"I could hardly believe it was you," she told him, "When I found out who the doctor here was."

She said it as if it had mildly amused her; when the discovery that it was her who would be arriving had alarmed him. She had always been the braver one of the two.

"Did you know before you came?" he asked her, "Or did they mention my name up at the house?"

"They confirmed it," she told him, "When we were all talking about it last night. But I already knew. I found out before we came, just because I was curious to see if it was someone we knew. We know most medical people to one degree or another, after all. I couldn't believe it."

He smiled a little.

"You couldn't believe it was someone you know so well?" he surmised.

She gave a hum that was partly assent and partly amusement. And partly something else, a query, perhaps? Perhaps she was wondering if it was right to say that she still knew him well.

He bowed his head, talking in a low voice so that there was no chance of anyone overhearing them.

"I was sorry to hear about Reginald's death," he told her softly, "I wanted to come to the funeral. But I didn't think that would be the best way to re-introduce myself. It wouldn't have been-..."

"No," she agreed, saving him the trouble of finding a word that they would both agree with, "I thought it must have been something like that. It would have been nice to have got a letter from you, though," she added as an afterthought, soothing the sharpness, the accusing note, that rose in her voice with a small smile.

"Yes," he replied, bowing his head in humility, "I'm sorry. I'm afraid my courage failed me there. I have no excuse."

"It doesn't matter, Richard," she told him quietly, slipping with apparent ease back into the use of his first name, "It was seven years ago, and I understand."

"Thank you," he told her sincerely, "It is very good of you to say so, Isobel."

Her smile grew a little fixed.

"It was difficult," she admitted, "Not hearing from you for so long. After Reginald had died. I wondered if you might write."

"I couldn't have known if you'd want to hear from me," he told her, "I thought if you'd wanted me you would have written and asked. You were always good at-... making your feelings known. When you wanted to."

He thought she detected the hint of reproach in his voice, and she seemed to take it well.

"Yes, I was, wasn't I?" she agreed, "I suppose you could say I found myself feeling shy too. Of course I understand, Richard."

"I'm glad," he told her, "If we are going to be working together."

"Yes, it seems that we are, doesn't it?" she observed, "I hope that won't be a problem. We did always work rather well together."

"Yes, we did, didn't we?" he agreed with a smile. It was hardly surprising given the circumstances, really, he thought, but it did not make it any less true, "Of course, it won't be a problem."

"That's good," she replied, "I'm sorry, but I really think I ought to be getting home now. Matthew will be back and I want to hear about his first day at his new job."

"Of course," he told her, turning and leading her down the corridor towards the front door of the hospital, "How do you find Crawley House?"

"I like it well enough," she replied, "It's a house, just like any other. Anywhere will do for me, just so long as Matthew's happy."

Really, she had not changed in the slightest. He smiled at her.

"I hope I'll be able to meet your son at last," he told her.

"Oh, you will," she told him, with one of her wry looks, "I think the conditions of our being here are that everyone is going to meet Matthew. But I should particularly like you to meet him. It's only right, really."

They exchanged a small smile, which assured him that he knew what she really meant. They had reached the door, holding it open for her, so that late afternoon light from the street beamed in.

"And don't be a stranger," he told her, "If you need anything, you know where I am. Or actually, do you?" he amended, realising that she probably did not, "I live in the cottage that's just at the end of the street that separates the hospital from the rest of the main street," he told her, "It's right next to the fields."

"That sounds nice," she remarked.

"It is," he told her.

"Richard, I'd like it if we could be friends," she told him suddenly, quite seriously, as if blurting it out, "I don't know if that's all I want, but I know that for certain. Is that alright?" she asked.

Taken aback as he was, he was hard-pressed to stop himself beaming.

"Yes, Isobel, that's alright. That's more than alright."

She smiled at him.

"Thank you, Richard."

And she went out through the door, down the steps and onto the High Street, looking for all the world as if she'd lived there her whole life for all the confidence she apparently had. He watched her go, full of admiration, with the trace of an ache at the back of his chest. She had not changed at all.

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