Author's Note: I blame Lavender-and-Hay. Again.

Dear Dr Clarkson,

Perhaps this is terribly forward of me, writing to a man who is not a relative. And yet, I find I do not care. I am a widowed woman with a grown son and too many years behind me to care for propriety now. France is such a lonely place, bleak and cold. Half the nurses are girls just out of the schoolroom, wide-eyed and naïve, and none of them have even a fraction of Lady Sybil's natural talent or cool competency.

Which brings me to the main point of this letter. How are things at Downton? I must confess to finding it rather strange, working with doctors who are not you. It's all so brisk here, more brutal than Downton by far. There's so little time for the human touch, it's just one patient after the next, a never-ending stream of pain and despair. I find myself remembering my work at Manchester General, all those years ago, and yet I see more death and agony in one day here than I did in a week at Manchester. I wish…

Oh, listen to me, rattling on like a silly old woman. This isn't the first war I've seen, though I hope to God it's the last, but still there are moments I find myself shaking like a green girl at the brutality of it all. Every so often I'll see a blond, blue-eyed boy and my heart will start to pound and all I can do is pray it is not my Matthew. I honestly don't know if I…

And there I go again. But I can't tell anyone else, you see. No one else knows how terribly wearing it can all be. It rather has to be lived, doesn't it? And battlefield medicine more than most. You would know, after Afghanistan and Africa. I can only imagine how awful it must be on the front lines, if this Is what I see in the relative safety of Paris. And I can only imagine what you went through, all those years ago.

I was so foolish to leave, I can see that now. Hardheaded and foolish. I'm afraid I rather let power go to my head, as I do sometimes. And yet I still believe I was in the right, in principle if not execution. And I was so terribly selfish, wanting all the credit. Of that, I must confess, I truly am ashamed. But I cannot turn back now, and not just because of my pride. I am so desperately needed here, I wasn't wrong about that. Every capable hand is needed. I sent myself out here, and I shall see the task through.

I am posting this before I can think better of it. Whatever else you may think, please try not to think badly of me.

Sincerely yours,

Isobel Crawley