Chapter 1
Shaky Ground
A/N: Here we go again, Chelsie loves. Most of S5 got short shrift in AHoM, and some of the "missing" moments are worth exploring and digging right in to. So, here we go, again. I am living in my "canon" world of AHoM, so there will be asides, Easter eggs, and references to the same herein. ~CeeCee
He left the drawing room in a daze. He felt deeply flattered; and then, so swiftly the emotions got jumbled together, he felt deeply ashamed that his ego had gotten tangled in the mess of it all. This was about creating a proper memorial for the soldiers who gave their lives for king and country, many of whom were young men who'd not even had a proper start to said lives, not about him in any capacity.
Except. They had chosen him, and not his lordship. It was all highly irregular, and though he couldn't quite go so far as to verbalize it, he vaguely felt it disrespectful. Not just to his lordship, but to the whole order of how things were meant to be done.
As he made his way downstairs, he realized he wanted to talk to Elsie Hughes about it. Which, he supposed, wasn't terribly odd these days. He long ago stopped denying, to himself at least, that she was one of the most – well, yes, the most – influential person in his life. Even when they didn't agree. Sometimes, especially so.
He hurried past the hustle of the kitchen preparing for the midday meal and rapped perfunctorily on her door, which was ajar. She was hurriedly eating a sandwich and reading a book: The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
"A life of leisure, I see," he teased, and she looked up, rolled her eyes. Set the book aside.
"Hardly."
"'A Case of Identity'"? He asked, gesturing to the compilation of short stories, sitting across from her.
"Nae, 'A Scandal in Bohemia,'" she finished her sandwich, wiped her mouth, neatly refolded her napkin. Took a sip of tea. These days, there were moments where he just…observed her. The little things she did. So deeply mundane, and yet somehow, deeply fascinating. He caught himself staring, but realized she had caught him too. A small smile, followed by a shaky breath, gave her away. They were both waiting for something, these days. He just wished he could sort out exactly what that something was going to be.
Then the moment was gone, like a leaf on a breeze.
"What was this grand meeting about then?" She broke the silence.
"A scandal of a different sort, I think, Mrs. Hughes," he felt alright again, and she seemed to be, as well, though she wasn't exactly looking at him, not yet.
"And that wouldn't be an exaggeration of any sort, eh, Mr. Carson?"
He raised his eyebrow at her. She was holding his gaze now, a pert look on her face. "I'll let you decide for yourself, then. The group from the village, it was the war memorial committee. They are in the very early stages, of course, but they want to move ahead in earnest. They came to speak to his lordship about securing land for the memorial…and to ask me to be the chairman."
Her face lit up. "Well, that's lovely, then," she smiled at him, poured him a cup of tea. "Where's the scandal, then? Do they want the war memorial upstairs in the great hall? Or The Grantham Arms?"
He pushed down the pride and satisfaction her words sent bubbling up in his chest. They were beside the point. "Well, I am not entirely sure I should be the chairman."
"Why ever not? Didn't you know many of the lads who lost their lives, including our William," she paused, and her face softened briefly, and she took a deep breath, continued, "…including our William, and many others, besides? And you're well-regarded by all and sundry, as far as the village is concerned." She paused, her forehead wrinkling, perplexed. He truly wished she didn't look quite so lovely to him in her confusion.
"But it should be his lordship who leads a committee, an endeavor such as this, not….me," he stopped there, loath to reveal the chagrin he had seen on Robert Crawley's face when he realized it was not him, but his butler whom the committee wanted as their chair. He also was trying to ignore how deeply flattered he was by her words.
"But it's you they prefer, and good on them. I suppose, rightly, they see you as a bridge between the house and village, in a way," she mused, rose from her seat, and began gathering the detritus from her hastily-eaten lunch.
"I thank you for the compliment, but his lordship would have been the far more traditional choice," he stood as well, stopping himself from saying anything further. Mostly because he wasn't sure exactly how to voice his utter unease to her. Not just about the chairmanship, but this MacDonald, the Labor government, many of the grand houses he used to admire now running short-staffed, or worse, being sold out of the hands of the families who had poured years and decades and centuries into them. While he'd not go so far as to call her liberal, he knew Elsie Hughes' tendencies ran, well, rather, progressively.
"I shan't say that, in some instances, tradition should go hang, as I know that wouldn't be very helpful," she replied, catching his eye.
"Indeed, it would not," he wasn't quite sure how she managed to both charm and irritate him simultaneously, but there you had it. He walked to the door, holding it for her as she passed.
She paused for a moment, looking up at him. He could see the many things she wanted to say dancing in her eyes, but couldn't fathom what they all might be.
"So…are you going to turn them down, then?" Her voice was light, her eyes very serious.
"I am going to…think about it. Consider the offer seriously," he inclined his head slightly towards her. He wasn't lying. Though he hated the idea of offending Robert Crawley, he was very touched to have been asked. And, if he was being entirely honest with himself, her opinion wouldn't decide him – but it would heavily influence him. He had come to accept it, these past few years.
"Well, there's hope for you yet, then," she responded, the corner of her mouth turning up into a half-smile, and continued past him, towards the kitchen, to drop off her dishes.
She glanced back briefly, now fully smiling, catching him gazing at her. He made himself turn away, head in the opposite direction, away from her. It seemed more and more difficult to do, these days.
