A/N: I have absolutely no idea where this came from. It got stuck in my head after watching the preview scene for S4E7, in which Isobel asks Tom if he would like to go to Ripon with her to hear a MP speak and so I just wrote it down. I really hope it's alright.

When he sees her for the first time, he can only catch a short glimpse of her, her head slightly turned while somebody next to her tells her something that makes her smile. As short a glimpse as it is, it couldn't have a more striking effect. He forces himself to look away, he is here to make a speech, it wouldn't do to stare at her.

But her smile doesn't leave his mind. A smile that has a melancholic beauty to it, one that doesn't need any words to confirm its meaning. He has a feeling that the woman it belongs to might be just the same.

She is lost in thought when he enters the stage and remains lost until he starts speaking. She tries to listen to what he has to say, only to find herself being captured by his deep, rich voice that underlines his words with the right amount of force, persuasion and compassion whenever needed. It strikes her as very useful at first, after a while she even admits that it is beautiful.

It feels strange, to label something as beautiful. Ever since Matthew died, the phrase hasn't really appeared in her mind. Not properly, because nothing really was beautiful to her until now. She chuckles, realizes how strange it is. She has been able to find love again, in George especially. And strength, in the cause, whichever one it is at the moment. But to find beauty anew in the voice of a man she has never met before? Be careful, she tells herself, or you're really getting mad and they will see you dancing around the burning Abbey before long.

He finishes his speech, accepts the applause with a slight bow, leaves the stage and is immediately surrounded by supporters who shake his hand and pat his back. If this would be a normal event, he would start a political conversation now that would be continued in the pub later on. It isn't though, and so he smiles at them, waves once and goes on into the hall, his eyes scanning the room until they fall on her, still in her seat, putting on her gloves.

It is a small task, and yet she looks so gracious. He doesn't think he has met a woman quite like her before. She radiates class, kindness and strength, as well as beauty of mind and soul. Not to mention the visible beauty she is, but that has never mattered much to him. He could have had beautiful women, all through the years, and yet, he never found the one to match him in every way that matters to make this thing called love successful. He thinks now, he might have.

She realizes that she apparently drew attention to somebody and looks up to find out who it is. When she sees him, the man that made her feel the silliest things, she cannot help but smile at him. Her smile awakens his, which in turn makes her put forth her hand. His handshake feels right to her, makes her comfortable.

"Thank you for your speech, Mr. Warden. I quiet enjoyed it."

Another smile, he lets go of her hand.

"I'm very glad to hear that, Mrs...?"

He looks at her in question.

"Crawley," she says. "Isobel Crawley."

Not the widow. Not the woman who lost her only child. Just Isobel.

She doesn't know what makes her say yes when he asks her to have dinner with him. All she knows is that somehow, it feels right. It's nothing fancy, and she likes it that way. He chooses the wine and the courses and, strangely enough, she doesn't mind at all.

When he tells her about London and his work, she is interested and listens intently, finds that his ideas make her want to talk about her own. Nothing is enforced, just quite lovely, really.

He realizes quickly that she is a very opinionated woman. The way her eyes light up when an idea captures her mind and convinces her. Or how they give her away when she already prepares to disagree while he is still talking. It makes him smile more than once.

And yet, he can sense that this isn't the only side of her, that, beside strong-willed determination, there must be a sensitive part too, one that just doesn't show that often. One that she probably doesn't reveal to anybody, not to him anyway, not yet. He serves her some more wine and continues to listen.

She accepts his offer to drive her home and when they stand in front of Crawley house, there is this short, awkward moment, where both their minds try hard to think of the right way to say goodbye. In the end, he kisses her cheek, puts aside the worry that it might be inappropriate and just does it.

His action is rewarded with yet another smile from her, but it seems strangely sad to him. She turns away quickly, makes her way to the door in a rather hurried manner. When she arrives, she turns around though and they look at each other for a moment.

"Thank you."

It is all she says, and before he can answer, she goes inside.

She invites him for tea a few days later. After making the call, she sits down on the steps and cries. She cannot even say why. But, somehow, she feels wrong for asking. She is not a vain woman. She knows that suffering can only last that long, and that, if it cannot be happiness, then at least contentment must find a place in life again to make it work, for it will go on anyway. She is content again already. She doesn't know if she can be happy again, but contentment seems fair enough.

She seeks him nonetheless though. Seeks him. And wants him. So badly that it frightens her.

He doesn't really know what makes him take her hand while they talk. It's not about politics this time, at least not most of the time, and she doesn't seem to mind. She looks lovely, he thinks, at ease in her own sitting room that emanates so much of what is her. And while the soft trait of sadness still hasn't left her face, she is beautiful to him, in every sense of the word.

She is still beautiful when she tells him of Matthew, fills the picture of just Isobel, quietly, taking all the time she needs. Beautiful, when the tears start falling and she is so sincere, lets him in completely and finds somebody who, finally, just lets her be.

They make love, much later. She lies bare before him and he doesn't hesitate, for isn't it what they have been doing all along? He doesn't hesitate. And makes her whole.

She likes the winter afternoons best. When they lie on the settee and her head is on his chest, when he holds her close while he reads to her, places soft kisses in her hair now and then.

The sadness isn't gone, but they remind each other of the fact that it is a beautiful sadness. They learn. And strive. With every day that passes, they grow. And beauty never leaves them.

Reviews would be wonderful.