Set in the hypothetical realms of Season 3, with some spoilers and some wishful thinking. Also, tending towards the AU where Mrs Hughes and Mrs Crawley are good friends.

"It's very kind of you to take me out to tea, Sir Anthony," Isobel told him sincerely, smiling at him over her teacup, "I must admit, it's not something that happens very often any more, especially now that Matthew's married. Before the war, we very often used to come down to the village for our tea on a Saturday afternoon. But I understand, of course, now he has Mary to take care of."

Anthony Strallan smiled back at her.

"I don't pretend to hide the fact that I like your son very much," he replied, "He's always been a good sort of chap. A credit to you, if I may say."

"You certainly may," she told him, "I do miss him now that he's moved out of the house, but I'm luckier than most mothers in my position, he lives just down the street. And I still come here by myself sometimes," she added, nodding at the tea room they were sitting in, "It makes a pleasant change from eating at home. However," she pointed out a little ruefully, he was bound to have noticed so she might as well mention it, "Coming here with a man close to my own age, well, does make us look rather like-..." she struggled to know how to finish.

"A courting couple?" he ventured.

"Well, quite."

She caught his eye and they both, much to her relief, laughed.

"This isn't where all of the courting couples in Downton come for their afternoon tea together, is it?" he asked hesitantly.

"Not quite all of them, but most of them, I'm afraid," she told him, laughing again, "I have to admit, I was rather puzzled when you suggested that we meet here. But they do nice cakes, so I didn't say anything."

He laughed again.

"Anyway, I think we're quite safe," she assured him, "I think just about everyone in the village knows that you're engaged to Edith. And it would be foolish beyond belief to flaunt your other woman in the tearoom of the village where she lives."

"Quite," he agreed.

"And I take it there was a reason you asked me here?" she asked him, "I imagined you wanted to talk to me about Edith. Was I wrong?"

"No, Mrs Crawley, you were quite right. The fact is, I need your help."

"With what?"

"My wedding present to Edith."

"You're wondering what you're going to get her? I'm not sure I'm the best one to help you there, you'd be better off asking one of her sisters or her mother."

"I know exactly what I'm going to get her," he assured her.

"Oh, good," she replied, secretly relieved on Edith's behalf that her fiancé knew her well enough to know what she'd like as a wedding present, "What?"

"When we went for a drive to York, she saw a dress in a shop window that she liked the look of, in fact she adored it, but she couldn't afford it then- heavens, I didn't have the money with me to buy it. I think she'd look marvellous in it. And I'd especially like her to have it when we go away for our honeymoon."

"Oh, Sir Anthony, you are good. That's a lovely thought," Isobel told him, "She'll be thrilled. But why do you need my help?"

"For her to be able to take it with her, she will have to have it ready on our wedding day, and I want it to be a surprise too. That means there isn't any time for her to go for a fitting at the shop without spoiling the surprise."

"Ah, I see."

"What I want you to do, Mrs Crawley, is to do me the favour of getting ahold of Edith's dress measurements."

Isobel took a contemplative sip of her tea.

"I didn't want to ask Lady Grantham to do it," he explained, "She has so much on her plate as it is, organising our wedding for us. And as for Edith's grandmother, Lady Violet that is- I'm afraid I don't know Lady Grantham's mother very well- well-..." he trailed off warily.

"You're frightened of her?" Isobel asked, raising an eyebrow.

"You're not?" he replied, equally surprised.

Isobel hooted with laughter.

"Violet and I have learned to live with each other, after all these years," she explained, "Even if that does, on occasions, entail mutual avoidance."

He chuckled again, as their cakes arrived.

"I see I have made the acquaintance of the right member of the family," he remarked.

"It's very nice of you to say so, Sir Anthony, but I would warn you not to speak to soon," she smiled at him.

…...

Richard was making his way back to the hospital in something of a foul mood. In fact he was in an awful mood. All he seemed to have done today was to career around the village on a series of fool's errands; easily avoidable accidents or very minor injuries that didn't really need a doctor at all; one child had managed to get a button stuck up their nose, for heaven's sake! He let out a heavy sigh as he reflected that at least during the war he had never felt uselessly employed like this. What he wanted now was to return to the hospital, deposit his bag and see if Mrs Crawley could be at all persuaded to sit down and have a cup of tea with him before they both went there separate ways home for the evening. But, he remembered, it was Mrs Crawley's afternoon off, and when he made his way home again he would have to do so very briefly; he had been invited for dinner at the big house that night. He knew he had only been invited because Lady Edith's fiancé was visiting and a great effort was being made to impress him, but the food there was good so he had accepted, and it was too late to refuse now.

Anyway, he thought to himself, as he walked wearily on, the small consolation was that when he was there he might be able to see Mrs Crawley and have a quick chat with her then. In fact, without her, he would find those dinners insufferable. Just at the moment when he thought he couldn't stand another moment of some ghastly bore talking about something he had no interest in, she always turned up at his side and made a joke about something, and his spirits were completely restored. Yes, he would see her that evening.

Heartened a little, he turned the corner onto the main street of the village, walking past the first shops with a little more spring in his step. His whole outlook was brightened by the thought of Isobel. In fact- was it?- yes, that was her up ahead, leaving one of the shops near the middle of the street, he could make her out, although there were quite a few people on the street, making their way home. Coming closer to her, he saw she was leaving the Marigold Tearooms, and he smiled to himself; he knew she had something of a penchant for the cakes they did there.

He was just about to go up to her and say hello, when he saw, to his surprise, that she was not alone, someone else had followed her out of the tearooms. They appeared to be saying goodbye to each other, but they looked very friendly together. He squinted a little, wanting to stay out of sight, trying to see who she was with. Yes, it was, it was Anthony Strallan, who was going to marry Lady Edith. Surely... the man was engaged, he couldn't have an interest in Mrs Crawley, could he? And even if he did, he surely wouldn't be so foolish as act on it. Not that it was foolish for a man to have an interest in Isobel Crawley. But, he thought ruefully, they were leaving the Marigold Tearooms, and it was common knowledge that the Marigold Tearooms were where all of the courting couples in Downton went.

He bent down, pretending to tie his shoe lace, looking up at them furtively. They were parting but... But Sir Anthony was kissing Isobel's hand. He felt his stomach sink uncontrollably.

Staying crouched down for a moment more, as he saw them part Richard straightened up, smoothing out the creases in his trousers with great concentration so that he did not have to meet Sir Anthony's eye as he passed. He doubted that he would have been recognised anyway, but he still felt uncomfortable.

He waited for a few moments to allow Isobel to get ahead of him as they were walking in the same direction- her back to Crawley House and him to the hospital. After what he had just witnessed, he had no wish to have to make conversation with her. His mind was reeling. Caught between the irritated instinct to walk quickly and the wish not to catch her up he sat down on one of the benches under the tree by the village green for a second.

Of course, he thought, she had a perfect right to go to tearooms with whomever she liked. The fact that the man in question was her young cousin's fiancé really was none of his business. There was no reason on earth that it should irritated him. But it had, he realised, very much so. He heaved a heavy sigh. It had irritated him so much that he hadn't even realised that a woman had sat down beside him on the bench; a woman who was now watching him wearily, probably because he had just sighed so audibly and, he imagined, looked like thunder. He half-smiled at her apologetically.

"You alright, love?" she asked, in a voice that for some reason sounded vaguely familiar, but which he couldn't quite place.

"Yes, thank you," he told her, hoping he didn't sound to sharp or overly standoffish.

"You don't look it," she told him.

He laughed politely, but did not feel particularly amused.

"I've had rather a trying day," he told her.

"Doctor, are you?" she asked.

"How did you know?"

"Because you're carrying a doctor's bag."

He did not, somehow, quite care for her tone. It was a little drawling and dismissive, without, he was sure, meaning to be.

"My sister's told me about you," she continued, "Just in passing of course, when she's been to see you at the hospital. She mentioned that the doctor was handsome."

"Who is your sister?" he asked, thinking that it might tell him why she looked vaguely familiar. Also, her remarked piqued his curiosity, though he knew the chances of Isobel having a sister and him not having heard about her before now were catastrophically slim. The woman's appearance was rather striking, though she was not pretty in the conventional sense, she was nothing approaching beautiful, not like Isobel. She was rather large, dressed in dark clothes that matched her hair.

"Beryl Patmore," she replied, "I'm here to visit her. I haven't seen her in years. I'm Agatha."

He shook hands with her. It did make sense, she certainly did have the look of Mrs Patmore about her, and her voice was practically identical.

"I'm staying at the Grantham Arms," she told him. If he wasn't very much mistaken, she was eyeing him over somewhat. It unnerved him, there was something sharp about her that he had never noticed in her sister on the occasions he had seen her, "I say, I don't suppose, you'd fancy having a spot of supper there with me this evening. Or a few drinks?"

My goodness me, she's forward, he though. Very few women had ever asked him to spend the evening with them, especially after such a brief acquaintance, it was usually the other way around. He was sure Isobel would never do it. And, as seen as he couldn't work up the nerve to ask her, she was off having tea in cosy little teashops with Anthony Strallan.

"I'm afraid I can't," he replied politely, "As it happens I'm engaged to have dinner at the big house, where your sister works this evening."

"Well, another evening, then," she pressed, "I'm here for a fortnight at least. I needed a good break from that lot at home and I thought it would do me good to come and see Beryl."

She's persistent too, he thought.

"Your children?" he asked.

"Four of them," she replied, looking harassed at the very mention, "The youngest's ten this June. And with my husband dead two years since."

"Oh, I'm sorry," he told her, a little more sincerely than he'd previously been.

"So you'll have dinner one evening, then?" she asked.

The rapid change of subject rather foxed him, and he was rather taken aback.

"I will have to see," he replied courteously, "In my job arranging things too far in advance can be a bit of a risk. Especially now that I'm back in charge of the hospital alone."

That wasn't strictly true, he thought, no doubt Isobel would be more than willing to look after the hospital for an evening if he wanted to go out. But, the thing was, he didn't want her to be willing to.

"I'm sorry, I must go or I'll be late," he told her, standing up.

"What's your name?" she asked him as he made to leave.

"Richard," he told her, nodding a little curtly, "Doctor Richard Clarkson."

…...

Though he had been annoyed at her earlier in the day, he found that the moment Isobel came up behind him that night in the drawing room he felt a little better. Things were dreadfully dull as usual, and the sight, the feeling, of her giving one of her benignly sly little smiles made him feel somehow warmer. Looking back over his shoulder at her, she glowed in her red dress in the generously lit drawing room, her yellow-brown hair now starting to look more silver, but gracefully so.

"Enjoying yourself?" she asked.

"Thoroughly," he replied dryly. It was a joke they had, they always began their conversations in this drawing room like this.

She smiled into her glass as she settled to stand beside him.

"Are you drinking brandy?" he asked her, a little surprised. She usually had a coffee and left it at that.

"Just for this evening," she answered, looking a little bit self-conscious, "I'm working up my nerve to do a particular favour for a new friend of mine."

This caught his attention; that could only be Sir Anthony.

"Oh yes?" he remarked, trying to sound as carefree and casual as possible, "What might that be?"

"Couldn't possibly say," she told him, taking another swig, and giving him a conspiratorial glance, she loved fooling about like this, especially when she'd had something to drink, "Only that it involves sneaking into someone's room with a tape measure."

"It wouldn't be Sir Anthony's room by any chance, would it?" he asked in a low voice, trying not to sound too sarcastic.

"Certainly not!" she replied a little too loudly, due to the brandy, no doubt.

He gave her a rather wry look. It was difficult to joke with a lump in your throat.

"I think the lady protests too much," he told her, keeping his voice low.

She drained the rest of her brandy, giving her glass to Thomas as he passed.

"Whatever you say, Richard," she replied, smiling at him, "But you have to admit, he's not a bad man, Sir Anthony, is he? I mean, I think, Edith could do worse."

"I can't say I really know him," he replied coldly.

"Well, I will tell you, he's not at all bad type for a young girl to be marrying. And rather a romantic mind too," he felt as if he'd been slapped in the face, but she did not seem to notice, she only picked up her shawl casually and said, "Now, I must get a move on if I'm not going to be caught out. Shall I see you at the hospital tomorrow?"

"Yes," he replied hoarsely.

She left him standing there, his heart and mind reeling again.

On his way home, soon after as Isobel did not re-emerge, he called downstairs and asked Mrs Patmore if she wouldn't mind telling her sister that he'd like to meet her one evening at the Grantham Arms.

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