The Chelsie Chapters – Prompt Fics

A/N: This is the first of series of little vignettes based on Chelsie prompts from tumblr. This one was sent to me by canadianjudy, one of my faves!

NB: If you have a Chelsie prompt you want fulfilled, feel free to leave it in the review section/PM me!

~CeeCee

THE PROMPT:

Charles and Elsie, either engaged or married, argue, and she storms out. The next morning, she's nowhere to be found, and he realizes how insensitive he's been. Meaning further infused with lyrics from this Charlie Rich classic:

"I woke up this morning,

Realized what I had done

I stood alone in the cold gray dawn

I knew I'd lost my morning sun." ~ The Most Beautiful Girl in the World, Charlie Rich

Chapter 1 – Home

After their kiss during the Bates' celebration, in his study, he thought things would return to usual. No, no, that wasn't right. Not usual, per se; rather, that they would more easily find their footing with each other.

But the world still felt tilted, slightly askew. He supposed it was because nothing was usual for them, not anymore. He'd not take back his proposal, nor her acceptance, for anything in the world. However, it had changed everything for them, hadn't it? How couldn't it?

It's all so untidy, he thought, as he reached the door of her office with a bottle of Bordeaux and two glasses in hand. That was the problem, wasn't it? All of the rules that had once bound them to mere glances and wishes and friendship straining at the seams no longer applied.

Being in love, it seemed, and having that love returned, sent all of the old restraints out of the window. How thrilling. How terrifying.

He rapped on the door and entered after hearing her bid him do so. He shut the door gently behind him and simply observed her for a moment. Her head was bent over her ledger; she glanced up, smiled at him, as she filled in some figures. Just that: how many times had she smiled at him, in the past three decades? They'd always buoyed him, but now they sent him soaring, like a leaf on a breeze. Held aloft, yes, but without an exact direction in mind.

She joined him at the little side table she had against the wall as he opened and poured the wine for them. They sat there in companionable silence for a few moments, listening to the sound of the downstairs winding down, the world beyond her door bedding down for the night. His hand reached out and took hers, and they sat there, joined together on the tabletop.

She finally spoke. "Do you think, Mr. Carson, we ought to settle the details for the wedding? The date, the venue?"

Her voice was hesitant. They'd not been able to agree, exactly, on anything to do with their nuptials, other than that they did, in fact, want to marry each other. He'd never been so certain of anything in his long life: he wanted to marry this woman sitting across from him, whose warm palm was pressed against his.

It was getting there that seemed to be the rub. He cleared his throat, began to speak, carefully.

"Lady Mary has graciously offered us –"

"Oh, I know what the blessed Lady Mary has offered, don't you worry," her tone was light, but he felt her hand tense in his. "But Lady Mary isn't the one getting married, is she? Nae, it's the pair of us." And he saw she couldn't help but smile at the thought of marrying him, which made her tone easier to tolerate.

"It's an extraordinarily generous offer, Mrs. Hughes, and I don't think we should throw it back in their faces, as I've said before," he simply couldn't understand why she was being so rigid about this. It would be an honor to be married in this beautiful house, where he'd lived and worked for so long. And, if he was honest with himself, he was deeply honored that Lady Mary had offered it.

"Me mam always told me, Mr. Carson, there are two answers when someone offers you a gift: 'thank you' or 'no thank you,'" she retorted, and he was dismayed when she pulled her hand away from his. "You know what my answer is on this, and I'll not be changin' me mind on it. This house…this house is most certainly not where I want to be married."

He was trying mightily not to be irritated with her. "Why ever not, Mrs. Hughes? Have we not spent most of our lives here? Aren't the Crawleys our family and don't we owe –"

"They are decidedly not our family, they are our employers," her voice no longer held any lightness; it was brusque and businesslike. He was as distressed as he was angry now. "And this house is not our home –"

He finally interrupted her. "Not our home? How can you say that? When we both have –"

Now she rose, and he stood as well, surprised. She looked very agitated, her breathing deepened. "This is not our home, it is where we live."

"Is there any difference?" Why were they arguing? How, exactly, had this happened, and so quickly? He looked at their nearly-full wine glasses, sitting together on the table, with regret.

One of her heavy breaths caught, and her chest hitched. "All of the difference, all of it, in the world, Mr. Carson. I am…am…flummoxed…you cannot see it."

"You know, Mrs. Hughes, I'd not thought you would get so flighty and emotional, preparing for the wedding," he decided to match her abruptness. It seemed like safer ground. No matter where he stepped in this conversation, it seemed, he was an inch away from plummeting over the edge.

She suddenly became very still, and a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. There was no humor in it, however. "Flighty…" she muttered, and there was almost a question in it. Her head was bent over, as if the answer to everything was below, on the floor. Then she gazed directly at him, took a deep breath.

"'Tis not our home, Mr. Carson, though it is where live, where we have lived, as you say, for most of our lives. But we cannot live our married life here, in this house, now, can we? It will not be our home, not ever. No, while we live here, in this glorious house, with the glorious Crawleys, our lives are not really joined. Not yet. I'll retire to my room, and you'll retire to yours. Which is what I am going to do, now, before I say anything else I regret."

And then, she was gone.

Before he could ever react, she had left in a whisper of damask and the muted jingle of keys, leaving him alone, in her office, with two full glasses of wine, the scent of her in the air, and a sense that he'd not realized, exactly, what they had been talking about.

All he understood, was he had made a right mess of it.

oooOOOooo

He couldn't find her.

He'd spent most of the night in his bachelor's bed, striving towards the peace sleep would provide, but never quite succumbing to it. Mornings were usually bustling at Downton, but even if he didn't get a glimpse of her before then, he always knew she'd be at his right elbow, caddy-corner, when the servants all sat for their own morning meal.

But she wasn't there – just her empty seat, glaring at him accusingly.

The noise and chatter of breakfast washed over him, along with a wave of unease. Where could she possibly be? He remained outwardly staid, but he barely tasted his toast and tea. The conversations of the staff were faraway static, drowned out by the rush of his heart in his ears.

"Mrs. Hughes isn't joining us for breakfast, then?"

The question pierced his reverie, asked casually by Thomas Barrow. Anna Bates looked up at him across the table.

"It's her day off, and she's actually taken it for once. I saw her earlier. She was off to the village, then Ripon, I believe, running errands," the lady's maid answered the under butler. "She has a wedding to plan, remember, Mr. Barrow?" Anna's brief grin at him, Charles, made him feel even more uncomfortable.

She rarely took advantage of her free days, with on occasional exceptions. Now that he was aware of her sister's existence, something that still worried at the edges of his consciousness, he could look back and understand some of her day-long trips had been visits to the seaside sanitorium in Lytham St. Annes. The only other free days she'd fully participated in, to the best of recollection, were those days last fall, when they'd house-hunted together.

What had she called that ridiculous, now obviously transparent scheme of his?

"…our little dream..."

The memory of that moment, that realization, which was the instant he knew he must marry her, if she'd have him, pestered him all morning. Towards midday, he was heading down the hallway, towards his study, to rest for a moment or two. His sleepless night and distracted mind were catching up to him.

"Alright, Mr. Carson?" Mrs. Patmore was in the doorway leading to the kitchen, a concerned look on her face. "Let me bring you a spot of tea, to your study." Before he could protest, which he wasn't particularly inclined to do, she turned back towards the crowded stove.

Ten minutes later, she appeared in the doorway of his study, with a tray of tea and biscuits.

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore, but there's no need for fussing," he took the fragrant cup she proffered to him gratefully.

"Oh, I'm not so sure of that, Mr. Carson," the cook responded as she turned back towards the door. "Everyone needs a little fussing over, every now and then." She paused at the entryway.

"I don't know what was said, nor am I askin'," the cook said. "But she was in a right state this morning, like a bag o'weasels. I've seen the pair of you get into it over the years, but it's not quite the same, now, is it? Yeh're gettin' married. It changes things, doesn't it, Mr. Carson?"

"I suppose it does, Mrs. Patmore, but I'm not quite sure why Mrs. Hughes is being so sensitive about it all," he hadn't meant to say that. Or anything, really. His frustration was bubbling towards the surface again.

"Sensitive or not, Mr. Carson, yeh're responsible for each other now, aren't you? I don't mean to speak out of turn, or, well, maybe I do, a little," she laughed, shrugged. "But livin' the way we all live, there's a certain independence about it, isn't there? No husbands, wives, family, not in the everyday sense. That'll change for the two'a you, and soon, won't it, Mr. Carson?"

Her tone was calmer, her words, less tense; but she was echoing what Elsie Hughes has said to him the night before.

"Her happiness is my responsibility." He said it with certainty, finally understanding. The day seemed a little bit brighter.

"Indeed it is, Mr. Carson. She's her own woman, as you and I both know very well, but there you have it. She may…rely…on you a bit more, now that yeh're getting married, don't you think?"

The cook left before he could formulate a reply. In any case, he already had the answer.

oooOOOooo

It was just before the staff's suppertime and he was sorting through the contents of a stack of folders he'd requested earlier today. He got a bit lost in the task; it was the first time all day that he'd finally felt peaceful.

"How was your day, then?"

She startled him. She stood in his doorway, still in her coat and hat. She'd stopped into to see him, even before she removed her outside clothing. It made his heart soar.

"Rather gray, without you, Mrs. Hughes," he stood, straightened his waistcoat. Her cheeks bloomed pink, and she looked away. She didn't seem angry any longer.

"Mr. Carson, I –"

"Mrs. Hughes, if I may," he held his hand up, interrupting her. He walked over, and shut the door behind her. Then stood, gazing down at her. "I want to ask you two things; I hope you're willing to oblige me on them."

She nodded, her eyes searching his face. He continued.

"The first, is that we not talk about the wedding tonight." She opened her mouth to speak, then reconsidered. Nodded.

"And the other thing, Mr. Carson?"

"That you'll forgive me, for acting like an insensitive boor," he took her hands in his.

"Go on with you, then," she swallowed a few times, squeezed his hands tightly. "Ye've never acted like a boor, in all of the years I've known you, Mr. Carson."

"You accept my apology, then?"

"Of course I do, ye old booby, as long as you accept mine," she swiped a stray tear away, noticed his pile of folders, the papers scattered across his desk. "What's all this?"

"Right," he helped her off with her coat and hat, gestured for her to sit. He poured them both some tea, then sat back down across from her at his desk. He cleared his throat, rubbed his hands together. "Well, you said something last night, Mrs. Hughes, that –"

"Oh, I said a great deal of things last night, Mr. Carson, likely many I shouldn't have," she chuckled, rolled her eyes at him and something in him settled, finally.

"Never mind that now," he raised an eyebrow at her. "One of the things you did say, that was quite right – as much as I love Downton, it will not be our home once we are married. That's what these are." He gestured to the pile of folders on his desk, each enclosing the details of a likely spot where the pair of them could start their married life.

She set her teacup down, reached, again, for his hand. He grasped hers, looked at them joined, across his desk.

"Show me, then, what you've found, Mr. Carson," her eyes were twinkling.

"I would love to, Mrs. Hughes," he opened the first one. "Then we can decide on our home. Together."