Another daft idea. No particular time frame. Carson/Hughes all the way. Me being silly again.

1.

The first rumblings of thunder caused her to quicken her pace considerably. She might have guessed that on the day she had agreed to go down to the village and pick up some items from the haberdashery for Miss O'Brien it would rain, especially as she hadn't troubled to take an umbrella. Her new speed, however, was useless; the first spots of rain dotted her forehead and she had to bite back a bitter and unrefined exclamation. She unceremoniously shoved the package under her coat and quickened her stride still further, almost running now. Then the heavens opened.

Once the downpour reached her, however, she found she had little humour for running. Although in her position, she certainly wasn't supposed to indulge in such absurd behaviour, she had to admit that she rather liked rain when it was properly heavy like this. Surrendering to the inconvenience of getting drenched, she slowed her pace right down, looking up towards the rapidly descending drops: they were so hard that they near on ricocheted off her face. It was a nice change after having been cooped up in that stuffy house for the winter months; tension that she hadn't even realised had built up in her suddenly seemed to be released and she had to fight back the urge to whoop.

2.

The raindrops hit the pane of his pantry window with vigour, causing him to look up momentarily from his paperwork. Rain always put him in a dull mood; even more so than having to be confined to his desk for an entire afternoon and he sighed heavily. This, he supposed, would mean that the housemaids would have to take the days bed linen off the washing lines, but of course Elsie would remember... except, Elsie was at the village. Hopefully she have stayed late otherwise she would be drenched on her return journey. Rather grateful for an excuse to leave the paperwork, he stood to go and find Anna or Gwen.

They were already outside, scooping bed sheets off the washing line when he arrived at the back door. He held it open as they dashed past him, clattering across the stones under the burden of numerous bedsheets.

"Isn't Mrs Hughes back yet?" he asked them, relieving Gwen her load so she could tip the water out of her shoe.

"No," Anna replied, "She's probably on her way back now."

"She'll catch her death!" Gwen observed, straightening.

Yes, Charles thought, he feared she probably would. Lost in his thought, Gwen took the bundle of newly soaked washing from his arms rather than waiting for him to pass it to her. The sudden lack of weight in his arms jerked him out of his reverie.

"You'd better put those on the lines in the scullery," he told them, "If there isn't enough space you'll have to ask Mrs Patmore if you can use the ones in the kitchen. In fact, I'll ask her; I doubt she'll be too pleased about great bed sheets flapping around while she's preparing the supper."

This said, the three of them proceeded- washing in tow- down the corridor and towards the kitchen. Before they reached it, however, their attentions were attracted by the sound of the back door opening and closing again loudly. Someone in loud and squelching shoes was following the course they had just taken, their breathing audible even at a considerable distance. Charles saw the two maids exchange a puzzled look and then peered round the corner to investigate for himself. Although, given that he knew who was out of the house that afternoon, it was really quite strange that the sight he saw surprised him, but nevertheless it did.

Elsie was drenched, there was no way of making it sound dignified, she was obviously soaked to the skin. Her wet hair clung to the side of her face and her skin shone pale with the cold and moisture. It was best not to go into describing the state of her attire, but as she shrugged off her coat he saw that the rain had soaked through and dampened her dress. But, though it defied the bounds of common sense, she did not seem at all disheartened by her state: her expression was arranged almost as if it had spent the last quarter of an hour smiling and her eyes were much brighter than he had ever seen them. Quite in contrast to the mood that rain seemed to awaken in him, it seemed to make her feel all the more alive.

"Mrs Hughes," Anna spoke, clearly realising that he himself did not intend to though he hoped she didn't realise why he didn't, "Are you all right?"

Elsie took off her hat with an unnatural energy, her joints ought to have been frozen after the weather she'd just been out in.

"Why shouldn't I be?" she enquired lightly, smoothing out her rather limp-looking headgear.

He wondered how to tell her why she shouldn't be without sounding rude.

"You're soaked, Elsie," he told her gently, forgetting for a moment that he didn't usually address her by her first name in front of the other members of staff.

Evidently immune to his concerned tones, she rolled her eyes at him as she headed towards the two maids, who were still standing there- watching agog- arms laden with sheets.

"Girls," she addressed them, "Get those sheets off to the scullery, they won't dry like that."

As she pointed, water droplets flew off the end of her finger. Although Charles clearly saw her watch them land in a line on the floor, she pretended not to notice. She turned back to him once the girls had gone.

"If you should need to speak me before dinner, I will be in my sitting room," she informed him and departed.

3.

He had known that she wouldn't react well, but it didn't stop him hurrying up to the airing cupboard on the first floor and finding the warmest blanket he could. He knocked on the door of her sitting room- not without trepidation- and received a call of admittance. He stood dumbly in the doorway, holding the blanket.

"What do you want, Charles?" she asked, her back to him as she closed the window to prevent the rain getting in.

Briefly, he wondered how she knew it was him without turning to look. He nodded to the blanket in his hands once she had.

"Put this on," he told her.

"Charles," she replied, her tone light but not without a hint of admonishment, "I'm not a little girl, I can look after myself."

"I know," he told her, "But grown women are just as likely to catch cold as little girls are when they go out and get themselves drenched."

"I'm almost dry now," she told him defensively.

"So that's why there's a watermark on your settee?"

Her face coloured a little but otherwise remained unmoved by his observation.

"I can take care of myself, Charles, thank you."

She really could be impossibly stubborn sometimes; he had often valued it when she was on his side, but when he had to come up against it he found himself going mad.

"Please put it on?"

"No."

"For heaven's sake, woman!" he exclaimed, "Stop being so obtuse! Or are you trying to make me wrestle you into it?"

Realising what he had said, it was his turn to flush and she raised an eyebrow. She had obviously heard that wrongly too.

"You know what I mean," he countered hastily, "Just put the damned blanket on."

"No."

"For goodness sake, why ever not?"

She gave a split second consideration to the matter.

"At first I didn't realise I was cold. Now I have and I'm just being defiant as a matter of principle."

That was all the reason he needed to close the space between them, unfolding the blanket as he went, and wrap it tightly around her, hugging her into the wool as he did so.

4.

"Thank you, Charles, although you really didn't have to."

Lighting the fire he turned away from it and straightened up.

"Yes I did," he replied, "Or you would have frozen."

Getting her into the blanket had been the greatest hurdle; after that he had managed to sit her on the settee, get some tea down her and light her a fire with comparatively little difficulty. She smiled at him shyly over the top of the mug he had given her.

"Thank you," she repeated.

He was quiet at first, simply looking at her for a moment and then:

"Are you warm enough?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Have you got enough tea?"

"Plenty."

"Do you need anything else?"

"Good grief man, I thought I told you stop fussing over me!"

Mildly aggravated while curled into a woollen ball of blanket and dark damp hair, she really looked rather adorable and he smiled at her despite her scolding. She rolled her eyes at him again, taking another sip of tea.

"It's nothing you wouldn't do for me," he reminded her.

"Probably true," she agreed, "Though it's rather presumptuous of you to say so."

He prepared to leave.

"Will you be at the servants' supper?" he enquired.

"I've been caught in a thunderstorm, not contracted the pestilence," she reminded him.

He nodded.

"I'll see you there, then."

"Oh, Charles?"

"Yes?" he turned at the door.

"If it's not too much trouble, could you bring me the shawl down from my room?"

Her room.

"Certainly," he replied, although conscious of the liberty he could be seen to be taking. But then again,she was asking him to go and get it for her, "Where abouts is it?"

She thought for a moment then replied:

"On the chest of drawers. If it's not too much bother?"

He left reminding her that he had offered to fetch her anything that she needed. He ascended the stairs to the servants' rooms at a moderate pace. It was strange to find himself on the other side of the door and he made his way to her room and shut the door before anyone could see him. In terms of layout, he discovered, it was almost exactly the same as his was, except he had a desk rather than a chest of drawers. He spotted her red shawl perched beside her mirror and decided it was probably the one she was referring to. Picking it up, he checked that it was sufficiently thick for her; still conscious that she was likely to catch cold. Beside it was a bottle of perfume which toppled over as the shawl was lifted; but mercifully not broken. He righted it, casting his eye over the label as he did so: green tea and citrus, which was funny because for some reason he always associated the smell of lavender with Elsie. He turned, still vaguely considering the matter and returned to the stairs to give her the shawl.

What do you think? Worth continuing? Please say yes, because I'm ill and would like to have a go at writing someone else ill, partly to make myself feel better and partly for... empathy. Please review!