Charles Carson stood steadfast before Downton's prodigious Christmas tree, having paused as he completed his rounds for the night. All was dark in the great hall save for the soft glow of the tree's lights. He allowed himself the tiniest of satisfied smiles, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment so that he might inhale the fresh, robust scent of pine that emanated from the tree's lofty branches.

A hint of another familiar scent tickled his nose; rosewater and bergamot, with the slightest notes of Ivory soap. He kept his eyes closed, holding his breath so that he would hear her steps slowing, the faint jingling of her chatelaine. He was listening so intently that he swore— in the complete hush that fell over the house at the late hour — he could nearly hear her tongue dart out to wet her rosy lips before she spoke.

"Don't worry, I've not come to scold you for lingering," she said, her burr thick and husky as she struggled to keep her voice low, "I thought I might join you."

He exhaled, reluctantly, wishing he could drink her in always — bottling her scent, wearing it in a vial around his neck so that he might be intoxicated in stolen moment's of missing her near to him. She appeared at his side, sighing pleasantly as she lifted her gaze to the tree.

"I daresay this might be the loveliest tree the Crawley's have ever had," he said, folding his hands neatly behind his back.

"It's very grand," she nodded, "The whole house seems particularly enamored by the holiday this year."

Carson looked down at her, "How so?"

Mrs Hughes shrugged, "I couldn't say precisely but," she bit her lip thoughtfully, "Perhaps it's all the wee ones underfoot."

"No more than last year. . .Master George, Miss Sybbie and Miss Marigold" he said, "Of course the little pitter patters have yet to arrive for Lady Rose and Anna, but you seem to think the Bates' may have a particularly joyful noel this year."

Mrs Hughes blushed, though in the darkness he couldn't see it. He could only tell because of how she curled her lips around the words, her voice rising a bit.

"By the looks of the poor girl the babe should have arrived a fortnight ago!" she laughed, folding her hands neatly in front of her middle, "Yes, I think the Bates' shall have the gift of a lifetime this Christmas. . ."

"Tender and mild," Charles sighed, returning his gaze to the tree, which flickered silently before them, casting tiny shadows along the windows, making it appear as though the stars were embedded in the glass, "I cannot help but remember the ladies when they were young. Those were some of the finest Christmases at Downton indeed."

"I suppose Saint Nicholas always brought Lady Mary exactly what she asked for?" Mrs Hughes said, looking up at him from beneath her dark eyelashes.

Carson shrugged, "I cannot remember, but surely they did. The Crawley girls were never naughty."

Mrs Hughes' eyebrows shot up, "Oh, is that so Mr Carson?" she smirked, sighing a bit. "If Saint Nicholas came to you for the verdict every year than I should think the young ladies owe you quite a debt of gratitude for being so generous with your references of character."

Carson chuckled, "The envy of many a disgraced footman."

She laughed at this, shaking her head slightly. They stood next to one another for a quiet moment, admiring the tree, before she felt him reach down for her hand. He wrapped it between his two warm paws, frowning a bit.

"Your hands are always very cold," he said, "I know they say something like 'cold hands, warm heart' but I find myself fretting over frostbite. Particularly now that snow's begun to fall." Lifting his hands, which encased her tiny one within it, he brought it to his mouth and blew gently moment before settling it against his chest. Her love for him swelled and she wrapped her free arm round his back so that she could rest flush against him, her hand settled in his above his heart. "If I'm to be honest, I suppose I ought to concede that it was not Lady Mary nor Lady Edith who was the spirit of Christmas. . .surely you remember."

"Oh yes – dear, sweet Lady Sybil, may she rest in peace. She was the only one of the young ladies I knew from birth."

"Yes, that's right — she was born just before Christmas the year you arrived."

"And you chastised me in the servant's hall for saying she was the most beautiful bairn I'd ever laid eyes on!"

He dropped her hand only so that he could wrap his arm round her waist, resting his chin atop her head, "That's not how I remember it."

"No?"

"I wasn't reprimanding you for saying she was a beautiful baby, I was reprimanding you for having snuck into the nursery when you went upstairs to change the linens."

Pulling away from his chest, she looked up at him indignantly, "Is that what you supposed I'd done? Stolen a glance at her in the nursery?"

"Well. . .didn't you?"

"No, you daft man!" she laughed, swatting his arm playfully, "Her Ladyship was nursing the bairn when I went up to bring fresh linens. The room was in chaos — the doctor still packing up his bag — I think His Lordship must have stepped out for a brandy," she smiled at the memory, "Her Ladyship bade me come to her bedside and admire the wee bairn. She was exhausted, of course, but still very elegant. She asked me to hold Lady Sybil so that she could get out of bed, so that I might change the linens — I was gobsmacked! Holding the bairn of a Countess — I'm sure she wasn't thinking, so tired and in pain no doubt — but also so terribly happy. She was beaming and she laid the little one in my arms," her voice choked a bit, her eyes stinging with unshed tears, "Sweet lamb. No bigger than a loaf of bread — and just as warm," she laughed, reaching up to finger the moisture from her eyelashes. She sighed, shaking her shoulders out a bit, "I had a bit of a soft spot for her, I did, dear girl. And I know you'll balk at my saying so, but I thought no two young people were better matched than she and Mr Branson. Miss Sybil's proof enough of that."

Carson hesitated, but wanted very much to reach for her then. He'd been learning, though, in the year since he'd asked for her hand, that sometimes his hand on her shoulder added to the weight she carried rather than taking away. So he waited, studying her for a moment, watching as her eyes glistened in the soft glow of the tree's lights.

Clearing his throat, he took a step toward the tree, inspecting one of the ornaments which hung proudly from a thick branch — a small globe that encased a tiny stuffed gray mouse.

"Do you remember the year — oh, she must have been five, maybe six? — that we were all instructed to watch Lady Sybil like a hawk if we happened to spot her teetering toward the tree. It seemed that she had become quite distraught at the fate of the poor mouse inside this globe and had decided that she must liberate him."

Mrs Hughes laughed, pressing her hand to her bosom, "Aye, I do remember. I believe it was we who discovered her poised to smash it on Christmas Eve."

"It was, wasn't it? Yes, that's right. You'd spotted her and flagged me down from the landing of the stairs."

"And you roared a mighty roar at the poor girl!"

"I only meant to get her attention, I wasn't angry —"

"Oh, of course but she was such a wee slip of thing — the whole house shakes with the sound of your voice, you know."

"She ran to you."

"Ran into me, more like it!" Mrs Hughes chuckled, "I was right behind her when she turned to run from you — but we had her cornered."

"And I believe 'twas you who properly quelled her fears about the mouse's fate. You quoted verse?"

"Wee, sleekit, cowran, tim'rous beastie, O, what a panic's in thy breastie!"

Carson blinked, having understood nothing of what she'd said.

"Robert Burns," she said, reaching down to take his hand in hers, "I recited the poem and then told her that the mouse was the envy of all the other mice because he could see everything from his little globe, all the comings and goings, the presents and the parties. He was the luckiest mouse of them all, he was."

Carson sighed, "She always ran down the stairs to hang that ornament every year. Oh, how dismayed she'd be if someone unboxed it before she'd come downstairs!"

Mrs Hughes reached out, touching the cool glass of the ornament, her nails clinking ever-so softly against the glass bauble.

"Now that we're speaking of it, I must admit I've never noticed: who has hung it since she passed away?"

Pulling her hand back from the branch, she laid her head against his broad chest, "I have," she said quietly, "Though I suppose the time has come for the tradition to be passed, wouldn't you agree? I think Miss Sybbie is old enough."

He looked down at her with his soft, adoring gaze and held it fast until just before his lips grazed her forehead with a tender kiss.