Dulce Et Decorum Est
A/N: This is a one-shot (for reals). I must also issue a spoiler alert; this definitely concerns S5 ep 3 and my hopes for ep 4. Alas, I must also admit that I have no claim upon these two; only a deep devotion that continues to ruin my life.
Charles Carson seldom uttered oaths, owing largely to his mother, an unfortunate expletive, and the foulest soap ever created by woman. Furthermore, oaths were, he felt, beneath his dignity. He was far too well read to resort to such common and vulgar utterances and yet he could hardly deny there were times when only a forceful, solid curse would do. Now was one such time.
"Bloody hell." Certainly not the strongest oath in his vocabulary, but one that succinctly expressed the contempt he felt for his weakness. "Gods damn bloody hell." He felt marginally better after the second utterance. It somehow encompassed his feelings of disappointment, despair, even, at the latest hash he'd made of things.
He scrubbed his face and sighed deeply. Things had been…different…since that day at the beach, since she'd offered her hand (so bold, yet so innocent; he still thrilled to think of it), the smooth, cool weight of her hand against his palm. Even now he felt a slight tingle, as though he were grasping her hand in his again. He'd made an effort to unbend, to acknowledge that she was the one to coax the man from behind the mask, and he'd succeeded, or at least he thought he had. He'd told her, not once but twice, that disagreements between them made him uncomfortable. And that last time, well, he couldn't help himself. She looked so lovely, so coolly elegant in her evening dress, her delighted smile at his admission. He couldn't help but notice that his words caused her to rock back on her heels. He'd unmoored her, and her flustered embarrassment only emboldened him. If only the sergeant hadn't interrupted them, he might have kissed her and settled the whole thing at last.
But now he'd stuck his foot in it again. What was it about her request that bothered him so? Why couldn't he be the man she knew him to be? Why must his refusals be so cutting? He didn't mean them to be. As soon as the words were out, he'd have sacrificed a limb to take them back. Her look of reproachful resignation was worse than any hiding he knew she could give. And to think he'd refused because the boy was shot for cowardice. He knew a good bit about cowardice, didn't he? He'd spent most of his life hiding behind a façade of dignity and respectability. He'd been so ashamed of his past, of his low associations, of losing Alice to that worthless charmer Grigg. Once he left the stage, he determined never to open himself again to the possibility of loss. On no account would he risk his heart. Instead, he would devote it to the Crawley family, to the eldest daughter whose spirit had so captivated him. Under no circumstance would he allow that lively Scottish maid with the lovely smile and sparky temper to burrow into his heart.
But she'd gotten him there in the end, hadn't she? And he owed it to her, to them, to screw his courage to the sticking place.
*CE*
"Have you a moment, m'lord?"
"Certainly, Carson. What may I do for you?"
"I wanted your opinion on a matter concerning the war memorial."
"I'm delighted to help if I can."
"It's about Mrs. Patmore's nephew, sir. He was killed in the war."
"Yes, I seem to recall something about that. Poor devil. I don't mean to be callous, but what has that to do with us?"
"Mrs. Patmore was hoping to have her nephew's name engraved on Downton's memorial."
"But the lad wasn't from Downton, was he?"
"No, m'lord; he wasn't."
"That doesn't make any sense, Carson. Doesn't his own village have a memorial?"
"They do, sir. It's only…well, they objected to adding his name, due to the nature of his death."
"And what was it?"
"He was shot for cowardice, m'lord."
Robert exhaled deeply. "I see. And you want me to intervene on his behalf."
"I would appreciate it sir, as would Mrs. Patmore."
Robert was silent for a long moment, gazing out the window thoughtfully. "Have you read any Wilfred Owen, Carson?"
"Wilfred Owen? No, m'lord, I haven't."
"Young man. He was a lieutenant in the war. Died a week before the armistice was signed. Tragic business, that. He was a poet."
"I see."
Robert looked at him piercingly. "Do you? Matthew told me only a little of his experience in the war, but it was enough to chill my blood. I wanted to know more, so I looked out this man's work. The way he described the trenches…well. After that, I'm not sure I could call any of our boys over there cowards." He sighed. "I'll do what I can to sway the committee, though the lion's share of the responsibility will fall to you, Carson." He smiled grimly. "Perhaps you could use your considerable influence on the postmistress."
"What a disturbing thought." He caught himself before going further. He bowed gravely. "Thank you, m'lord. On behalf of Mrs. Patmore, I offer sincere thanks. Might I ask one more favor?" Robert inclined his head. "Could we keep this between us, m'lord?"
"I don't see how. We must discuss it during the next meeting if we're to have any hope of getting the lad's name on the monument."
"You misunderstand me, m'lord. I was only hoping to keep it from the household for as long as possible."
Robert looked at him quizzically. "Why?"
"I would prefer it if they, I mean Mrs. Patmore, learned of this from another source."
"As you wish, Carson."
"Thank you, m'lord."
*CE*
He woke with a start in the night, gasping for breath and fighting the covers. That afternoon, he'd located the slim volume of poetry his lordship had recommended and spent a fretful hour going over the haunting and ghastly lines.
If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,—
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie: Dulce et decorum est
Pro patria mori.
He shook himself free of the covers and tried to lull himself back to sleep, but all he could hear was the ceaseless pounding of guns and the thick, gasping sound of mud sucking against the shoeless soldiers' feet.
*CE*
The day of the memorial dawned bright and clear. By some blessed miracle, neither Mrs. Patmore nor Mrs. Hughes acknowledged his supposed role in arranging for Archie's name to be added to the roll of Downton's fallen young men. He dressed with particular care this morning, as it was his responsibility, as chair of the committee, to say a few words during the unveiling ceremony.
He'd spent several sleepless nights wrestling with himself. Duty or truth? Palliative or strong medicine? What would Mrs. Hughes do? He rather thought he knew what she would say. What would he do? He loved his country, had spent his life in service of the ideals of the great Empire, and though perhaps it was waning, though he cared little to dwell on that, could he cast all of that aside, expose himself and the family to anger, possibly hatred? But conversely, could he encourage, however implicitly, the young boys who would doubtless be in attendance, the cousins, nephews, sons of those left behind, to long for war? He smiled in bitter irony that he had planned to read a few brief stanzas from Horace's odes: Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori. No, no. Owen's poetry was too raw, too honest, to be read at a memorial, yet Horace's work was too trite (there was no other word for it) to be alluded to. It wasn't until the afternoon before the memorial that he found something he felt he could read aloud without feeling a hypocrite.
*CE*
"My own words are too feeble to convey all I feel at the sacrifices made by the young men of our village. I hope you'll bear with me as I read the words of a distinguished soldier and poet, Rupert Brooke."
If I should die, think only this of me:
That there's some corner of a foreign field
That is forever England. There shall be
In that rich earth a richer dust concealed;
A dust whom England bore, shaped, made aware,
Gave, once, her flowers to love, her ways to roam,
A body of England's, breathing English air,
Washed by the rivers, blest by suns of home.
And think, this heart, all evil shed away,
A pulse in the eternal mind, no less
Gives somewhere back the thoughts by England given;
Her sights and sounds; dreams happy as her day;
And laughter, learnt of friends; and gentleness,
In hearts at peace, under an English heaven.
His voice faltered on the last line as he caught sight of Mrs. Hughes in the crowd, wiping away tears. His heart seized as she looked up at him with an expression he couldn't quite describe. He closed his mouth, which he feared had been open like a fish for longer than he cared to contemplate. He nodded gruffly and stepped away from the podium, allowing Lord Grantham the opportunity to speak. He tried to listen attentively to his lordship's remarks, but he found himself unable to tear his gaze from Mrs. Hughes as he tried in vain to speculate what possible meanings could be derived from her look. There was sorrow, but pride as well, perhaps a bit of anger as well? He felt he deserved whatever wrath she felt, but he rather hoped he had redeemed himself somewhat in her eyes. Her good opinion mattered; it was the benchmark to which he'd been unwittingly striving for nearly twenty years.
She'd accompanied Mrs. Patmore to the ceremony, but he was determined to accompany her home. He would make a point of finding her at the earliest possible moment.
*CE*
"Mr. Carson! Mr. Carson!"
He turned impatiently. He would rather not be waylaid now, but it couldn't be helped. "Yes, Mrs. Patmore?
"You can't know what this means to me, to my sister. Thank you. Thank you so very much, Mr. Carson."
He smiled and patted her hand. "It wasn't my doing at all, Mrs. Patmore. It's his lordship you must thank."
"He does indeed deserve my thanks, but I know who encouraged him to do it, and I wanted to thank him first." She reached up on her tiptoes and kissed him lightly on the cheek. "There's another who deserves my thanks, but I believe I can find her back at the house. I'm going to stay just a moment or two longer, then I'll be on my way home. Perhaps you might tell Mrs. Hughes not to wait on me?" Mrs. Patmore gave him a knowing look. He was so pleased he nearly winked at her, but he managed to restrain himself.
"I'll be happy to convey your message, Mrs. Patmore. We'll see you shortly."
Mrs. Patmore nodded and smiled through her tears at his retreating back. She'd watched the two of them dance around each other for donkey's years. She'd had high hopes after spotting them holding hands (who'd ever have thought?) at the seaside, but as usual they'd both placed duty and position above any personal feelings. But things were changing, no doubt about it. She sniffed. It was only too bad that Archie wasn't here to enjoy it. She'd shed a few private tears this evening when all was said and done. For now, she'd take a moment to see his name engraved on a war memorial and say a little prayer for his soul. He was a good lad, was Archie, and he'd be best pleased to have his name with all these other young fellows from Downton.
*CE*
"Mrs. Hughes! Mrs. Hughes! Would you wait a moment?"
"Yes, Mr. Carson, what is it?"
He was breathing hard; she'd been walking quickly, as though she were trying to avoid him. "I only wanted to tell you," gods, man, stop gasping for breath "that Mrs. Patmore is going to stay in the village for a little longer. She asked me to tell you," he finished lamely. She was holding herself very stiffly.
"I thought as much. That's why I decided to make my way home."
"May I walk with you?"
"Suit yourself."
Oh, dear. She really was angry. Well, and who could blame her? Courage, Charlie, he heard in a voice that sounded suspiciously like Griggs'. They walked along in silence for a few moments. "What did you think of the ceremony?"
"It was very touching, Mr. Carson. The poem you read was very apt. Quite a lovely thought, especially the last line."
"I'm glad you approve."
"It's not for me to approve or disapprove, Mr. Carson.
He stopped to face her. "Mrs. Hughes, I…"
"Yes?"
He was struck again by her loveliness. She was wearing a new hat, and it framed her face becomingly. He had to find the courage to say the words-
She sighed in exasperation, turned and began walking.
"Mrs. Hughes, wait, please. I want to apologize."
She stopped again and turned to face him. "For what?"
"For being so harsh with you. I don't know why I do it."
"Don't you?"
He looked at her intently. "What do you mean?"
She sighed. "Nothing, Mr. Carson. I don't mean anything. I'm tired and spoke out of turn. Forget it."
She made to turn again, but he took hold of her upper arm and implored her to stop. "Tell me," and his voice was low and urgent. He watched as she read his face and understanding began to dawn in her eyes.
"I should think it ought to be you to tell me."
"And you would be right." He took a step closer. "Mrs. Hughes. Elsie. I love you. I think I've been in love with you since the moment you walked through the back door and hung your coat on a peg." He released her arm and took her hands in his. "I've been a very great fool," he murmured. "Can you find it in your heart to forgive me?" She nodded mutely. "Can you find it in your heart to love me?" She nodded again. "May I kiss you?" Before she could nod her assent, Charles bent down and lightly kissed her lips. It was brief and feather light, but all he dared do in broad daylight on a public path with a good deal of traffic expected at any moment. He squeezed her hands before releasing them and pulling one arm through his so that they could walk side by side. He was reluctant to let anything between them now. He grinned down at the top of her hat. "How are you, my dear?"
"Happy. Very happy."
"I'm glad. So am I. May I come to your sitting room tonight? There is a question I've been meaning to ask you."
"Is that so?"
"It is."
"And it can't wait?"
"It can't."
"Then I suppose I must acquiesce."
"I hoped you'd say that."
They laughed as they walked along in the bright sunshine, a gentle breeze drying the tears of joy and sorrow that had run down Mrs. Hughes' face. Charles wanted to remember this moment always, his own bit of English heaven on earth.
A/N: Now before anyone gets too terribly upset with me, I wanted to allude to the last line of Brooke's poem and I didn't want to substitute Scotland for England. I do think Charles' idea of an English heaven would include Mrs. Hughes by his side. I am fervently hoping that all this unresolved angst will resolve itself during next week's episode. Fingers crossed for more wonderful Chelsie next week. Meanwhile, all the wonderful authors in this fandom are giving me my own English heaven in the form of all these lovely updates and new fics. Keep 'em coming!