*April 20, 1912 - Downton Cottage Hospital*
The morning light streamed through the windows of the examination room as Josh carefully assessed John Bates's injured knee. The valet sat on the edge of the examination table, his trousers rolled up to reveal a badly scarred joint, twisted slightly from years of improper healing.
"The shrapnel caused significant damage," Josh observed, his fingers gently probing the area. "And I'm afraid that corrective device has only made things worse."
Bates nodded stoically. "I suspected as much, but I was desperate. If I can't perform my duties..."
"You're worried about losing your position," Josh finished for him.
"His lordship has been remarkably kind, but there are limits to even his generosity," Bates admitted. "A valet who can't stand for long periods isn't much use."
Josh straightened, considering his options. The damage was severe but not beyond repair, even with 1912 medical techniques. The trick would be balancing what was possible with what would seem plausible for this era.
"I believe I can help you," he said finally. "There's a surgical procedure that could improve your condition significantly. It involves removing the damaged tissue, realigning the joint, and possibly stabilizing it with small pins."
"Pins, sir?" Bates looked alarmed.
"Very small ones," Josh assured him. "They'd be removed later. The goal is to reduce your pain and improve your mobility. Not a complete cure, I'm afraid, but enough that you could function normally."
"And the risks?"
"All surgery carries risks," Josh acknowledged. "Infection is the primary concern, though we'd take every precaution against it. There's also a small chance we might not improve your condition, though I think that's unlikely based on what I'm seeing."
Bates took a deep breath. "When could you perform this procedure?"
"Next week, perhaps. I'll need to discuss it with Dr. Clarkson and make preparations." Josh paused. "There's also the matter of cost."
"Yes," Bates said quietly. "I have some savings, but—"
"Consider it a professional courtesy," Josh interrupted. "One staff member of Downton to another."
Bates looked up, clearly surprised. "I couldn't accept such generosity, sir."
"You can and you will," Josh replied firmly. "Consider it an investment in Downton's future. I'll need a good valet someday, won't I?"
A rare smile crossed Bates's face. "Your consideration is... unexpected, sir."
"I'm finding that people often have low expectations of doctors and aristocrats," Josh observed. "Perhaps it's time to change that."
After Bates left, promising to return the following week to discuss surgical preparations, Josh found Dr. Clarkson in his office.
"I'd like to perform a knee reconstruction surgery next week," Josh announced. "For Lord Grantham's valet, Mr. Bates."
Dr. Clarkson looked up from his paperwork with surprise. "Knee reconstruction? That's rather advanced, isn't it?"
"Not particularly," Josh replied carefully. "Similar procedures have been performed successfully in London for the past few years. War injuries like Mr. Bates's are unfortunately common."
"I see," Dr. Clarkson said thoughtfully. "Would you allow me to assist? I'd be interested in learning the technique."
"Of course," Josh agreed, pleased at the older doctor's open-mindedness. "It's a relatively straightforward procedure, though it requires precision."
As they discussed the details, Josh felt a familiar satisfaction. Helping Bates wasn't just about changing one man's life—it was about introducing medical innovations that could eventually help many others.
By midday, Josh had completed his hospital rounds and returned to Crawley House to prepare for Gwen's typing test. He spent some time in his study, organizing correspondence and financial papers that would serve both as a test for Gwen and an introduction to the full scope of his activities.
From his desk drawer, he retrieved several letters from his investment contacts in London—correspondence about railway shares, American automobile companies, and newly established telephone networks. All investments he knew would pay handsomely in the coming years, carefully selected based on his foreknowledge of the market's development.
A knock at the door interrupted his preparations. "Come in," he called.
Molesley entered, looking slightly nervous as usual. "Sir, a young woman is here to see you. She says she has an appointment? A Miss Dawson."
"Ah yes, Gwen. Please show her in, Molesley."
Gwen appeared in the doorway a moment later, clutching her typewriter case to her chest like a shield. She wore her best dress, Josh noted—not her housemaid's uniform, but a simple blue cotton that complemented her auburn hair. Her expression was a mixture of hope and terror.
"Please, come in, Gwen," Josh said warmly. "Thank you for coming."
She bobbed a nervous curtsy. "Thank you for the opportunity, sir."
"Would you like some tea before we begin?" Josh offered, gesturing to a chair across from his desk.
"Oh, no thank you, sir. I'm too nervous to drink anything," she admitted with a shy smile.
Josh couldn't help but notice how pretty she was when she smiled—her freckled face lighting up, her blue eyes bright with anticipation. She was young, perhaps twenty or so, with a fresh-faced appeal that was quite different from the sophisticated beauty of women like Mary or the mature sensuality of Alice Bingham.
"No need to be nervous," he assured her. "This isn't an examination, just a chance for us to see if we suit each other."
He paused, realizing how that might sound. "Professionally, I mean," he added quickly.
Gwen blushed slightly. "Of course, sir."
"Please, set up your typewriter wherever you're comfortable," Josh instructed, indicating a small table near the window. "I'd like to see how quickly you can type and your ability to take dictation."
As Gwen set up her machine—a compact Underwood No. 5 that she handled with obvious pride—Josh explained the position he had in mind.
"I need someone to manage my correspondence, both medical and personal. I have patients to follow up with, research to document, and various investments that require attention." He gestured to the stack of papers on his desk. "It's becoming more than I can manage alone."
"Investments, sir?" Gwen asked, looking up from her typewriter.
"Yes, various financial interests," Josh replied casually. "Railway shares, American companies, that sort of thing. I've been fortunate in my choices so far."
Gwen looked impressed, as he'd intended. Let her draw her own conclusions about his financial status.
"Now," he continued, "let's start with a simple speed test. How many words per minute did you say you could manage?"
"Forty, sir, on a good day," Gwen replied, positioning her fingers over the keys.
"Excellent. I'll time you for one minute. Are you ready?"
Gwen nodded, her posture straightening with determination. Josh dictated a paragraph from a medical journal, watching as her fingers flew across the keys with surprising speed and accuracy. When he called time, he counted forty-three words.
"Very impressive," he said genuinely. "You've clearly worked hard at your skills."
Gwen's face flushed with pleasure at the praise. "Thank you, sir. I practice whenever I can, though it's difficult to find time between my duties."
"That would change if you worked here," Josh pointed out. "Initially, I'm thinking three afternoons a week. Would that arrangement work with your responsibilities at Downton?"
"I'd make it work, sir," Gwen said firmly. "I'd do whatever it takes."
Josh smiled at her determination. "I believe you would. Now, let's try some dictation. I have several letters that need replies."
For the next hour, they worked through various correspondence. Gwen's shorthand was nearly as impressive as her typing, and she caught on quickly to the medical terminology Josh used. Her enthusiasm was infectious, her joy at finally using her skills evident in every movement.
As they completed the last letter, Josh leaned back in his chair, watching her tidy up her work. "You're very good at this, Gwen. Much better than I expected, honestly."
She looked up, cheeks pink with pleasure. "Does that mean...?"
"It means the position is yours, if you want it," Josh confirmed. "Three afternoons a week to start, with appropriate compensation, of course."
"Oh, sir!" Gwen's face transformed with pure joy. "I can't thank you enough. This means everything to me."
"You've earned it," Josh replied, standing to pour them both a celebratory glass of sherry. "To new beginnings."
Gwen accepted the glass shyly, their fingers brushing during the exchange. Josh noticed her slight intake of breath, the way her gaze darted up to meet his before dropping again.
"I've never had sherry before," she admitted, taking a careful sip.
"How do you find it?" Josh asked, moving to stand beside her rather than returning to his desk.
"It's... warming," she replied, her blush deepening as she became aware of his proximity.
"Like many good things in life," Josh observed, his voice softer now. "Warmth is often where we least expect to find it."
The atmosphere in the room had shifted subtly. They were no longer employer and prospective employee but a man and a woman, standing close enough that Josh could detect the faint scent of lavender soap on her skin.
"Tell me, Gwen," he said quietly. "What do you hope for beyond being a secretary? What are your dreams?"
She looked up at him, something vulnerable and hopeful in her eyes. "I just want a chance, sir. A chance to be valued for my mind, not just my hands. To make something of myself."
"You will," he assured her. "You have intelligence and determination. Those qualities will take you far."
"Thanks to you," she said softly. "No one's ever given me a chance before."
"Perhaps no one's ever seen you properly before," Josh replied, setting down his glass. "Really seen you."
His hand rose almost of its own accord, fingers lightly brushing a strand of auburn hair from her cheek. Gwen's breath caught, her eyes widening but not pulling away.
"Sir..." she whispered uncertainly.
"Joshua," he corrected gently. "When we're alone, at least."
"Joshua," she repeated, the name unfamiliar on her tongue. "I should probably go. They'll be expecting me back at Downton."
"Probably," he agreed, but neither of them moved.
The moment hung between them, charged with possibilities. Josh knew he was crossing another line, knew this could complicate their working relationship, but the attraction that sparked between them was undeniable.
Slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, he leaned down and brushed his lips against hers. The kiss was gentle, questioning, and brief—a mere suggestion of what could be.
When he pulled back, Gwen's eyes were still closed, her lips slightly parted in surprise and something like wonder.
"I shouldn't have done that," Josh said quietly.
"No," she agreed, her eyes opening to meet his. "But I'm glad you did."
The blushing housemaid was gone, replaced by a young woman who suddenly realized her own appeal, her own power. The transformation was remarkable.
"This complicates things," Josh admitted.
"Life is complicated," Gwen replied with newfound confidence. "But I still want the position. The secretary position," she clarified with a slight smile that told him she understood the double meaning.
Josh stepped back, returning to a more professional distance. "It's yours. We'll sort out the details of your schedule and responsibilities when you start next week."
Gwen gathered her typewriter with careful movements, her composure returning though her cheeks remained flushed. "Thank you for the opportunity, sir. All of it."
After she left, Josh remained standing by the window, watching her make her way down the path toward Downton. The kiss had been impulsive, dangerous even, but he didn't regret it. Gwen was lovely and ambitious, a woman at the beginning of a journey toward independence. There was something appealing about that—about being a part of her transformation.
Still, he would need to be careful. His position as heir already placed him under scrutiny; adding romantic entanglements with the staff would only complicate matters. But then, complex had always been more interesting than simple.
Josh smiled to himself as he returned to his desk. Between Alice Bingham, Gwen Dawson, and his growing interest in Lady Mary, his romantic life was becoming rather crowded. But then, he'd never been one for moderation in this second life.
The rest of the day passed in routine medical matters. Josh performed a minor surgery at the hospital, visited several patients in the village, and spent an hour discussing modern treatments with Dr. Clarkson, who proved refreshingly open to new ideas.
By evening, he was back at Crawley House, joining his mother and brother for dinner. Matthew was preoccupied with his upcoming church visit with Lady Edith, while Isobel was busy planning improvements to the hospital nursing protocols—a battle she was determined to win despite Violet's resistance.
"You seem pleased with yourself," Isobel observed, studying her son across the table. "Good day?"
"Productive," Josh agreed. "I examined Mr. Bates's knee and believe I can help him. And I've hired Gwen as my secretary."
"The housemaid from Downton?" Matthew looked surprised. "How did Lord Grantham take that?"
"I haven't discussed it with him yet," Josh admitted. "But I can't imagine he'd object to his staff improving their prospects."
"You might be surprised," Matthew cautioned. "The aristocracy can be quite particular about such things."
"Perhaps," Josh conceded. "But times are changing. And so must Downton, eventually."
Later, as Josh prepared for bed, he found himself thinking about the week ahead. Napier and Pamuk would be arriving soon, bringing with them potential scandal. He needed to be prepared, needed to find a way to intervene without causing more problems than he solved.
But that was a concern for tomorrow. Tonight, he would savor his successes—helping Bates, employing Gwen, continuing to establish himself as a respected member of the community. Small steps toward larger goals.
As he drifted toward sleep, Josh's thoughts wandered between the women in his life. Alice with her desperate passion, Gwen with her hopeful ambition, Mary with her guarded intelligence. Each appealing in different ways, each offering different possibilities.
He slept deeply and dreamlessly, untroubled by the complexities he was creating. After all, life was meant to be lived fully—especially a second life, granted against all odds.
---
*April 25, 1912 - Downton Abbey*
The day of the hunt dawned clear and crisp, perfect weather for riding across the Yorkshire countryside. Downton Abbey was a hive of activity from the early hours, servants rushing to prepare breakfast for the hunting party while stableboys readied the horses.
Evelyn Napier and Kemal Pamuk had arrived the previous evening, along with several other guests invited for the occasion. Josh had declined to join the hunt itself, citing hospital duties, but had promised to attend the luncheon afterward.
Mary sat at her dressing table as Anna helped her into her riding habit—a perfectly tailored outfit of deep green that accentuated her slim figure and dark beauty. Her expression was carefully neutral, though Anna detected an unusual tension in her movements.
"Are you looking forward to the hunt, my lady?" Anna asked as she secured Mary's hat.
"Of course," Mary replied automatically. "Though it's more about the company than the fox, as always."
"Mr. Napier seems very attentive," Anna observed carefully.
"Yes, he's perfectly pleasant." Mary's tone suggested this was faint praise at best. "Though his friend Mr. Pamuk is rather more interesting."
Anna had seen the Turkish diplomat the previous evening when she'd been serving at dinner. He was undeniably handsome, with dark eyes and a charismatic presence that had caught the attention of every woman in the room—including, it seemed, Lady Mary.
"He's very good-looking," Anna agreed neutrally.
"And he knows it," Mary added with a slight smile. "Which makes him both more appealing and more dangerous."
"Dangerous, my lady?"
Mary met Anna's eyes in the mirror. "Men who know their own appeal often feel entitled to take what they want. Don't you find?"
Anna wasn't sure how to respond to this unexpected confidence. "I wouldn't know, my lady," she said diplomatically.
Mary seemed to catch herself, her expression becoming more guarded. "Well, it's just a hunt. I'm sure everything will be perfectly proper."
Downstairs, the hunting party was assembling in the great hall. Robert, resplendent in his riding clothes, was discussing the planned route with several gentlemen. Cora supervised the footmen as they offered coffee and small pastries to sustain the riders until the hunt luncheon.
Evelyn Napier stood somewhat awkwardly near the entrance, clearly waiting for Mary. Unlike many of the guests, he seemed more concerned with propriety than excitement for the hunt itself.
"Ah, Sir Evelyn," Violet greeted him as she arrived to see off the hunting party. "I hope you slept well?"
"Very well, Lady Grantham, thank you," he replied politely.
"And your friend, Mr. Pamuk?" Violet's tone suggested she was still reserving judgment on the Turkish diplomat.
"He's just coming down," Napier assured her, glancing toward the stairs with poorly concealed impatience.
As if summoned by their discussion, Kemal Pamuk appeared at the top of the staircase. He cut a striking figure in his riding clothes, his dark good looks and confident bearing drawing all eyes immediately. He descended with the easy grace of a man accustomed to admiration.
"Lady Grantham," he greeted Violet with a slight bow. "You look radiant this morning."
Violet sniffed, unmoved by his flattery. "At my age, Mr. Pamuk, radiant is not a word often applied. But I appreciate the sentiment, unlikely as it may be."
Pamuk's smile widened, seemingly appreciating her directness. "Age merely enhances beauty, my lady. Like fine wine."
Before Violet could respond to this outrageous charm offensive, Mary appeared at the top of the stairs. The conversation in the hall quieted momentarily as she descended, the picture of aristocratic elegance in her riding habit.
Pamuk's eyes fixed on her immediately, his interest obvious to everyone watching. Napier's expression tightened slightly, though he maintained his composure as he stepped forward to greet her.
"Lady Mary, you look lovely," he said with genuine admiration.
"Thank you, Sir Evelyn," Mary replied graciously, though her eyes drifted past him to Pamuk.
The Turkish diplomat stepped forward, taking her hand and raising it to his lips in a gesture that lingered just a fraction too long to be entirely proper. "Lady Mary. I find myself looking forward to this English tradition with unexpected enthusiasm."
"I do hope we won't disappoint," Mary replied, meeting his intense gaze directly. The air between them practically crackled with mutual attraction.
Robert, noticing the exchange, moved to intervene with practiced smoothness. "Time to mount up, everyone. The Master of Foxhounds waits for no one, not even the host!"
As the hunting party moved toward the doors, Thomas handed out flasks of brandy to the gentlemen, while other footmen held cloaks and gloves ready for the ladies. The organized chaos of a great house preparing for a traditional event was impressive to watch.
Outside, grooms held the horses steady as riders mounted, the animals stamping and snorting in the cool morning air. Mary's horse, a spirited bay mare, was brought forward by Lynch, the head groom.
"She's fresh this morning, my lady," he warned as he helped her mount. "Mind she doesn't run away with you."
"I think I can handle her," Mary replied with confidence, gathering the reins.
Pamuk maneuvered his horse alongside hers, leaning closer than strictly necessary. "Perhaps we might ride together, Lady Mary? You can educate me on the finer points of English fox hunting."
"I'd be delighted," Mary agreed, ignoring Napier's poorly concealed disappointment as he was forced to fall in beside Edith instead.
Robert gave his daughter a warning glance but said nothing as he took his place at the head of the party. With a nod to the Master of Foxhounds, the hunt began.
The riders moved out across the grounds of Downton Abbey, a colorful procession against the green landscape. Hounds bayed eagerly, handlers worked to keep them under control until the appropriate moment, and the morning sun glinted off polished tack and gleaming horses.
From the upstairs window of Downton Abbey, Sybil watched them go, secretly relieved she had been excused from participating. Unlike Mary, she found little joy in chasing a terrified animal to its death, tradition or not.
"They look splendid, don't they?" Cora commented, joining her youngest daughter at the window. "Though I notice Mr. Napier is not riding beside Mary as he might have hoped."
"Mr. Pamuk seems to have captured her attention," Sybil observed. "Though I'm not sure I like him. There's something... calculating in his manner."
"Men like Mr. Pamuk are practiced charmers," Cora agreed. "Your sister would do well to remember that."
"Mary can take care of herself," Sybil said confidently.
"I hope you're right," Cora murmured, watching as the hunting party disappeared into the distance.
Out on the estate, the riders spread out as the hounds picked up a scent. Mary and Pamuk found themselves momentarily alone as they followed a narrower trail through a small copse of trees.
"Do you often hunt in Turkey, Mr. Pamuk?" Mary asked, guiding her horse carefully along the path.
"We have different methods," he replied, his dark eyes never leaving her face. "But the principle is the same. The pursuit, the excitement, the... conquest."
The double meaning was unmistakable. Mary felt a thrill of both attraction and warning. "And are you always successful in your conquests?"
Pamuk's smile was confident, almost predatory. "Always, Lady Mary. Always."
As the hounds' baying intensified in the distance, signaling they had found their quarry, the two riders spurred their horses forward, rejoining the hunt. The chase was on—in more ways than one.
The fox led them on a merry pursuit across the estate, through fields and woods, over hedges and streams. Mary rode brilliantly, her natural grace and years of practice evident in every movement. Pamuk kept pace, showing himself to be an accomplished horseman as well.
By midday, the hunt had achieved its goal. The fox was cornered and dispatched efficiently by the huntsman, the ritual aspects of the kill observed with traditional respect. As the excitement subsided, the hunting party began making its way back to Downton for the luncheon.
Mary found herself riding beside Napier on the return journey, Pamuk having been temporarily drawn into conversation with Robert and another gentleman.
"You seemed to enjoy Mr. Pamuk's company," Napier observed, his tone carefully neutral.
"He's an interesting man," Mary replied noncommittally.
"Yes, Kemal has a way with women," Napier agreed, a hint of resignation in his voice. "I should warn you, though—his interests tend to be... transitory."
Mary raised an eyebrow. "Are you suggesting I need protection, Sir Evelyn?"
"Not at all," he backtracked quickly. "I merely... that is, I wouldn't want to see you disappointed."
"I assure you, I have no illusions about diplomatic attachés from foreign embassies," Mary said coolly. "No matter how charming they might be."
But as Pamuk rejoined them, his dark eyes meeting hers with unspoken promises, Mary wasn't entirely sure her words were true. There was something compelling about him, a magnetism that was difficult to resist.
As the hunting party crested the final hill, Downton Abbey came into view, golden stone glowing in the midday sun. Servants could be seen preparing tables on the lawn for the outdoor luncheon, white cloths fluttering in the gentle breeze.
And there, walking up the drive toward the house, was a figure Mary recognized immediately—Dr. Joshua Crawley, arriving for the luncheon as promised. Even at a distance, there was something distinctive about his bearing, a confident grace that set him apart.
"Ah, your cousin has arrived," Napier observed, following her gaze.
"Second cousin, once removed," Mary corrected automatically, though she was surprised to realize she was looking forward to seeing him again. After several days in Pamuk's overwhelmingly masculine presence, Josh's more thoughtful charm seemed suddenly appealing.
As the riders approached the house, Mary found herself caught between two very different men—Pamuk with his intense, overt seduction, and Joshua with his intelligent, subtle attraction. Both intriguing in their own ways, both potentially dangerous to her carefully guarded heart.
The hunt had ended, but another chase entirely was just beginning.