"He's arriving today."
"I wonder if he's as handsome as Miss Butrose would have us believe."
"He's only a few years older than Miss Marks!"
"Charles Carson. Just the name sends a shiver down my spine."
"I can't believe it ain't to be Edward."
"Edward! I wouldn't be taking any orders from Edward."
"You'll take orders from anyone the family tells you to, my girl."
"They'd allow a butler to marry now, wouldn't they?"
"Betsy wrote me a letter, said he's awfully tall, with a noble bearing and dreamy voice."
"Betsy's a silly little fool."
"I'll wager you're mad you agreed to leave now, Elsie."
Elsie looked up when her name was mentioned. "I don't see how the arrival of a new butler would make me change my mind about going to work for the Denvers."
"What if he's as handsome as Heathcliff supposedly was?" Martha, one of her fellow maids, said, pointing to the book she was holding. Elsie didn't bother to correct her that she was actually reading a new story by Arthur Conan Doyle.
"I've yet to meet a butler handsome enough to even contemplate tolerating the way he would surely wish to order me around like a scullery maid should we marry."
"You can't be a scullery maid if you've time to sit here gossiping."
Everyone jumped at the deep voice speaking from the doorway, including Elsie. Then, the room was filled with chairs scraping back while everyone scurried to stand up in their places as a sign of respect for the interloper, whom they all realised must be the new butler they had so eagerly been speculating about.
Mrs Cavendish, her keys rattling against her thigh, entered the room too. "This is Mr Carson. Please introduce yourselves," she ordered. "Firstly your name, and then your position. We'll go around the room, beginning with Miss Marks."
Elsie kept her head bowed, cursing her fair skin as she felt it flushing as it got closer and closer to her turn to speak. She couldn't yet say if Betsy's letter held any truth about Mr Carson's looks; she could only see his shoes. Although they did nothing to reveal his level of beauty, she could for a fact say they proved he took pride in his appearance. Their polished sleekness was perfect, despite the fact he'd probably had to walk quite a bit to complete his journey to Downton that very morning.
The line of introductions reached her. "Elsie Hughes."
"Yes. Not the scullery maid," he said. His voice was low and clear with a middle-class English accent which was much more refined than most of the other servants in the house. Her strong brogue would most likely make him wince.
Her thoughts had meant she'd forgotten to give her title, so he went on: "Too young to be a housekeeper, and I know Miss Marks is the head housemaid... So... Lady's maid? No, I would say not..."
She looked up then, at that comment, her temper building. She knew her plain looks and red curls that refused to be tamed were unfortunate, but he could hardly assess her efficiency from these things alone.
Whatever she was going to reply with, however, was forgotten when she at last fully took in his features.
The rumours were right about some things. For starters, he was much younger than one expected most butlers to be. She could only be a few years younger than him, in fact. Another thing that had been correctly reported was his height. She had to stretch her neck right back to look up at his face, and that was when any sharp reply she was about to give was promptly forgotten.
Handsome... She could not easily dismiss his looks. His face was so interesting; it held a masculine strength that drew her in instantly. She shivered a little. She'd never reacted to a man in such a manner.
Slowly, her eyes found his. She would berate herself constantly about this later, but at that moment she ridiculously wanted to know if he was as affected by her as she him. In them, however, she never found a grand passion, or even a twinge of attraction. Instead, there was just an incredibly sadness.
She studied the skin around them; it was smooth. His eyes never crinkled with amusement?
Her gaze dropped to his mouth. As she suspected, it was stretched into a tight grim line. There had been little joy in this man's life. His professional life was a success, but he had no satisfying private life, of that she was certain.
"So..."
She frowned. She was so sure she had everything planned out; from head housemaid to housekeeper with no romantic entanglements along the way. She'd said 'no' to Joe so easily because-
"Elsie is an upstairs parlourmaid. But she's just given us one month's notice." Mrs Cavendish was answering his prompt and giving her a stern look, one which told Elsie she'd be hearing about how inappropriate her daydreaming when talking to the new butler was soon enough.
One of his thick eyebrows raised. "To marry?"
Elsie quickly found her voice at this suggestion. "No. I have been offered the position of head housemaid at another house."
His shoulders slumped with relief, wounding her pride. Her ire peaked but, before she could add anything further, he and Mrs Cavendish were leaving the servants' hall and heading in the direction of the kitchen.
"He's going to be strict, I knew he would!"
"I'm not sure how long he'll last with the Dowager. She won't be happy about looking up at him for starters."
"He reminds me of a Roman Gladiator."
"I still think Charles Carson is a lovely name. Sadie Carson, has a lovely ring to it, it does."
Elsie slid back down into her chair, ignoring the excited chatter dancing around the room again. Carefully she opened her book up to its place. The printed words blurred. A month, she reflected. She would be gone at the month's end and she would never have to wonder about Charles Carson and why he was the most handsome and yet least cheerful man she'd ever encountered.
0.0.0.
Elsie bustled along unobtrusively as possible, but then paused next to the grandfather clock which graced the hallway. Today was her last half day before she left Downton and she needed the opportunity to go into Ripon and make a few purchases. According to the clock, she had exactly fifteen minutes until she was free to go.
"I hope you're not thinking of leaving the house early, Miss Hughes."
She whirled around before quickly curtseying. "Of course not, Mr Carson."
She found a mark on the wooden floorboard and concentrated on it. The clock, now behind her, ticked loudly. Her heart was not only keeping time with it, but trying to outdo it in the loudness stakes. Surely Charles Carson could hear it...
"You've just finished cleaning the library?"
"Yes, sir. Mrs Cavendish likes it done when none of the family are present."
"That would seem sensible. Do you think Mrs Cavendish is a sensible woman, Miss Hughes?"
She blinked, and then took a moment to readjust her vision on the dark line on the floor before replying: "It's not my place to offer an opinion on Mrs Cavendish's sense, sir."
"Can you offer an opinion on your own sense, Miss Hughes?"
Her gaze flickered once more. "Sir?"
"Are you a sensible young lady, Miss Hughes?"
"I believe so," she said truthfully.
"And efficient... Perhaps an inspection."
She raised her eyes anxiously. He had removed a white glove from the pocket of his trousers and was gesturing for her to follow him into the library.
She stood just inside the doorway whilst he strode around the perimeter of the room, slapping the white glove across his palm occasionally, but making no move to don it or wipe it across any surface.
She heard the grandfather clock she'd been standing before earlier begin to play its hourly tune. She thought of all the errands she needed to run, and yet she knew she could not make one move until Mr Carson dismissed her.
Finally, he returned to where she had remained still and silent. He stepped quite close; close enough for the scent of silver polish to fill her senses. For one mad moment, she was unsure whether or not she wanted to be dismissed.
"You read?"
She bit her lip at the unexpected question.
"I don't understand..."
"Books," he said, waving his hand towards the neatly stacked shelves. "You were reading the day I arrived at the house. You know how to read? You had the opportunity to attend school, perhaps?"
"Yes, sir. For six years," she admitted, a flush creeping across her pale cheeks. "From the age of four until ten."
He nodded. "Keep reading," he advised. "A housekeeper has to plan rosters, stock the pantry and linen storage, allocate guests to rooms and ensure all her staff have received their weekly earnings. One cannot hire an illiterate housekeeper."
"No, sir. And a housekeeper's nights would drag without the likes of Shakespeare to keep her company," she dared to add.
He grunted. "A housekeeper should be so tired at the end of her day, she should retire early, ready to start early the next morn."
"What about the butler?" she asked boldly.
"The butler?" he repeated, confused.
"The housekeeper and the butler are allowed, even sometimes expected, to share a few moments in each other's company at the end of the day. They should reflect on their days, and discuss any adjustments to their routine that may be necessary-"
"Adjustments to routine should never be necessary in a great household such as Downton."
"Never?"
"No, it's the routine which makes it a great house."
She snorted. His expression never wavered.
"You can't really believe that? From all the many things that make Downton the great house it is today, you would choose routine as the defining one?"
"Routine goes hand in hand with tradition, Miss Hughes. And tradition is the defining one."
"I couldn't-"
She stopped as the grandfather clock again chimed. More briefly than earlier, but it was enough to announce that another fifteen minutes had elapsed.
"Saved from a rather boring discussion?" he suggested.
She opened her mouth, but then clamped it firmly shut again. Nothing she could think of to dissuade him from this self-deprecating and yet incorrect aspersion sounded appropriate for a maid to say to the head butler.
"Go. It's your half day, I believe."
This time, before she could say anything more, he turned and disappeared out the glass door that led to the garden.
0.0.0.
Elsie's coat was tattered. It would be the first thing she would do, if she should ever be housekeeper in a grand house and earn an income that allowed such an extravagance: buy a smart coat that kept her warm and even perhaps made her feel a touch prettier than she was in reality.
For now, she tugged on the thin, plain grey one she owned and closed her small suitcase.
Next, she glanced around the tiny room she'd lived in for the past six years. She realised suddenly that even though the floors were cold, the mattress was thin, and the draught which blew from the window was too strong in winter and non-existent in summer, the room was dearer to her now than the one she spent almost seventeen years living in on her family's farm.
For the first time since she'd made her decision to leave Downton for the higher position at Denver Castle, she wondered whether she was making the right choice. If she was to stay...
She determinedly shook her head, ridding herself of her foolish thoughts. Even if she could stay, now that Charles Carson had been installed as butler, the answer was she must go.
"Elsie!"
Martha burst into the room, nearly knocking Elsie over with her usual immature enthusiasm.
"Lass, I was going to come and bid you goodbye before-"
"Mr Carson wants to see you, Elsie."
"What?" she said, her fingers gripping the lapels of her coat.
"Mrs Cavendish says he's sent for you. Even if you are leaving the house today, you daren't not go, Elsie!"
"Goodness, you make it sound like a fate worse than death! I expect he is just being polite. Some matter of routine..."
Ten minutes later, standing before Charles Carson, she didn't feel so confident. His head was bent. He was writing a letter and she waited patiently for him to finish. She liked his hair, she decided. It was thick and very black with no sign of balding.
"Here you go," he said, folding the letter he'd been writing into its waiting envelope and holding it out in her direction.
She stared at it stupidly.
"A reference, Miss Hughes."
"You've written me a reference?"
"Shouldn't that be expected?"
"No, not after a mere month of observation of my work. Mrs Cavendish has already supplied me with one-"
"So now you have two, Miss Hughes."
She delicately plucked the envelope from his grasp. Disconcertedly, her fingers were shaking. "Thank you."
"You still have time, Miss Hughes," he said instead of dismissing her as she expected.
"The train leaves at three o'clock, sir-"
"I didn't mean time to get to the station. I was referring to time to change your mind. You could still stay on here, at Downton. I'm sure we could find some suitable story to appease the Denvers."
"I've given my word to them, Mr Carson."
At that, he studied her for quite a while without speaking. She kept eye contact. She was leaving anyway, so there was no reason to be intimidated by Charles Carson. Although, she realised, she hadn't been particularly intimidated by him since he'd arrived at the house. She'd been overwhelmed by the deep empathy he elicited from her. She'd been fascinated by the gentle tug of attraction she felt for him. She'd made sure she was respectful at all times, doubly so considering, but she'd never been intimidated by his air of superiority.
Finally, he spoke, interrupting her thoughts: "As much as it pains me to lose a maid of such quality, it pleases me that you have such high ethics, Miss Hughes. It's rare in a woman."
"Rare in a woman?" she repeated. "I'm not sure the male of the species has the authority over morals, Mr Carson. Equality-"
"Equality?" he scoffed. "There is no equality of the sexes, Miss Hughes."
She pressed her lips together tightly. "No indeed, there is no equality of the sexes," she agreed.
"Nor shall there ever be, god willing. The last thing we need is for women to forget their place in society."
"I suppose it will be up to men like you to remind us, Mr Carson," she said, her tone lowering dangerously.
"Yes!" He stood and tugged his jacket into place.
Her anger got the better of her. "Do you ever intend to marry, Mr Carson?" she snapped.
He swayed on the spot at the unexpectedness of her question. "I didn't ever think I would, Miss Hughes," he said. The tone of his voice had lowered too. But his was almost soft and gentle. It made her forget the scolding she was about to give him about his attitude and the pity she would feel for his wife.
"You don't think your wife should be your equal?" she whispered.
"No, Miss Hughes. I should not."
"What about Mrs Cavendish?" she asked, still not at all satisfied with his attitude, typical though it may be.
"I assure you I don't wish to marry Mrs Cavendish."
She snorted and then bent her head, laughing heartily at the idea. Eventually she composed herself and looked up. Mr Carson was smiling. It took her breath away.
"I meant do you think she is your equal here in the house?"
His smile disappeared. "Of course not. But when you become housekeeper-"
"When?" She couldn't help it, she laughed again.
The corners of his mouth twitched. "Perhaps we could save the equality discussion for then, Miss Hughes."
"I look forward to it," she said.
His hand lifted and for a brief moment she thought he was going to touch her in some way, but he never. Only when she was seated on the train, staring out at the passing scenery, did she acknowledge she was disappointed that he hadn't.
Elsie joined the line of servants outside the house as three autos pulled up. She stared at the passengers from the first one. It had been fifteen years. They looked much older. She supposed she must as well. Her hair wasn't the vibrant red it had once been; her skin wasn't smooth after all these years in service; and her waist's circumference was much expanded. Once upon a time, a man with large enough hands could have almost spanned its tiny girth...
She gasped. She knew their arrival would evoke memories of Charles Carson, but she hadn't supposed the first thing she'd be thinking about would be his hands. Although, over the years, she'd had many a dream about his hands, among other things... An acquaintance of one month had allowed her fantasies to blend with reality until now she could barely recall what had truly transpired during her brief time with him at Downton.
She clasped her hands together tightly. She was acting like one of the youngest maids... He may not even work at Downton anymore.
The Crawleys were speaking to Lord Denver now, and just as she thought neither would recognise her at all, Lady Grantham turned and smiled. Next, much to her surprise, her previous employer approached her and greeted her like she was an old friend.
Beside her, Mr Fairchild, the butler, stiffened. She knew he would mention this later, most likely accuse her of trying to deliberately upstage him. His paranoia knew no limits.
"It's Mrs Hughes now?" Cora Crawley asked. "I must admit, I had completely forgotten which house you had left us for until Carson reminded me that we may see you this weekend and insisted I report back to him regarding your wellbeing."
Elsie's mouth dried. Charles Carson was not only still at Downton, but he still remembered her?
Before she could think of any reply at all, the guests were being herded indoors by their hosts, and soon she was too busy to think any further about the past.
.
Elsie entered the room and stood before the butler's desk. The butler placed his fountain pen to one side, but did not look up. She took the opportunity to note he still wasn't balding, though she took comfort in the visible streaks of grey.
While he closed the ledger he'd been working on, she took a moment to glance about the room. It was tidy, traditionally furnished, and a familiar and comforting scent hung in the air.
She dropped her suitcase to the floor, removed her new jacket and draped it across the back of a chair, before carefully lowering herself into the same chair without being asked.
"Will I recognise any of the staff?" she asked. She daren't tell him just how well she recognised him; every fine detail.
He carefully aligned the ledger to the edge of the desk. "I can't think of any... No. Only myself..."
She studied his mouth as his words trailed off. His lips were still stern, but there were lines around their ends.
Abruptly, he looked up and their gazes met. There were matching lines feathering lightly from the corner of his eyes towards his wide forehead. He had learnt to smile more freely in her absence. A pang of jealousy shot through her at just who could have taught him happiness...
"You have a reference from the Denvers?"
She raised an eyebrow. "Are you now to tell me you won't employ me should I not have a reference?"
His bottom lip jutted out. "You've certainly got more impertinent with time."
She leaned her head to one side, contemplating that statement. "No, I don't think I have. I've grown older-"
"And wiser?" he turned the end of her sentence into a question.
"I like to think so."
"And how are we to work together, do you think? With this overwhelming confidence of yours."
She lowered her chin until it almost rested on her neck. "As equals?" she dared to suggest.
He snorted, a strangely familiar sound even though she could think of no particular time he'd made it all those years ago.
"Women are still not equals, Mrs Hughes."
"No they're not, sir." She paused. "Mr Carson," she corrected. He would need to know her mind from day one. The word 'sir' felt like it belonged in another time, another place - even though this had been the only place they'd ever spent time together. 'Mr Carson' was respectful but not demeaning to her.
"Very well," he said quietly. He stood and stalked around to stand behind her. She felt him staring down at her curls, which again had managed to escape their confines during her long journey today.
"I've heard rumours of Mr Fairchild. He is a difficult man," he said, a statement more than a question. She wondered just how much he knew, and just how he'd found out.
"Yes," she agreed honestly.
"So your expectation on a workable relationship with a butler will be rather low."
"Extremely low. You can be rest assured your very worst behaviour will be considerably better than, and much preferable to, Mr Fairchild's best."
"No wonder you came with no reference," he muttered at her unkind words.
She swivelled in her chair to see his expression. His eyes twinkled. He was still the most handsome man she'd ever seen, she realised. She gave in and began to laugh merrily.
A moment later, he joined her, and the sound was even sweeter than she'd imagined.
She moved to stand beside him and they both sobered. Then, at last they were touching. He placed his hand to rest on her arm and she let out a long shuddering sigh. It wasn't in any way a sexual touch, and yet she was instantly aware of its intimacy. She placed her hand upon his and squeezed it gently.
"It's good to be home, Mr Carson," she said quietly, not wanting to break the spell.
"Where you belong, Mrs Hughes," he said, his tone low and gruff. "We'll find a way around your impertinence, I expect."
"And your arrogance," she promised.
She let her hand fall away, and bent down to collect her jacket. In turn, he removed his hand from her arm and tucked her suitcase under one of his.
"Lead the way, Mr Carson."
He puffed out his chest. "Always," he declared.
~The End~