s6 SPOILERLERRT. This is set after s6e2, following the one-shot "Mine."
It's Mr Carson's reflections as his opinion (about wedding reception locations) wavers and changes. I hope you enjoy!
Kitchen
She wants to take a walk to the home farm — here's his chance. When he slopes into the kitchen, she seems startled by his presence, or is that delight?
"I'll join you!" he booms. "We'll be back by twelve."
He can barely keep the stupid grin off his face, because she seems rather pleased.
"Right you are," she declares.
Did she just — blush? She's biting back a smile; good Lord! His lovely girl gets flustered when he flirts with her. He can't believe his luck.
It's thrilling to see the way she responds to him now. And in front of Mrs Patmore and Daisy! Even in his delight, he feels slightly embarrassed for her. He hopes he's not undermined her authority. He wonders if he should suggest she control herself better in the presence of others, and decides that with the way he's just been skulking in the corridors, telling her to calm herself would be like the pot calling the kettle black.
It's precisely why he's still not called her by her given name: he fears he won't be able to stop. He'll be an embarrassment. A lovesick fool, dropping her most private name in the servants' hall, in the corridors, all over the place where it could be trampled by these young ones who have no idea how precious it is.
Stroll
Cool, misty air and violently green lawns. In those little shoes he thinks her feet must be cold (she seems so small), but she's so proud; he wouldn't dare suggest she wear something warmer. Besides, he's never paid much attention to her shoes; maybe she doesn't have warmer ones? His mind flings itself down a sad path (will she allow him to buy her warmer shoes does she need them has she been cold) as their steps crunch on the gravel (he deliberately slows his pace to match hers). But a trip to the home farm is as good an excuse as any to get some time away together (he wishes she would take his arm).
Her immediate rejection of his Lordship's offer irks him. It's not terribly surprising, and he rather agrees with her now he hears it from her mouth, but he needs her to know it was meant kindly (he needs her to think well of them).
She teases him about Lady Mary, but his eyes are closed when he turns toward her and as such he doesn't see the charming smile that would have told him no harm was meant.
He only hears her tone, and it bothers him even more. He won't apologize for how important the young lady is to him.
Her response — nor do you have to — might have been soothing, had he been less on edge.
He asks what he should tell his Lordship. That's bound to be an awkward conversation.
"Tell him thank you, but no."
Good Lord, how is he supposed to do that?
Parlour
These days it seems he's unable to articulate what's bothering him — but only where she is concerned. Other things, little problems of silver and tea service and wine, those are easy. But she's finding all his little cracks and sore places and making him put words to them, and it is very uncomfortable.
She's so close, just across the little table in her sitting room, lovely as ever in soft lamplight. They're behind closed doors, for goodness' sake; why can't they (kiss; he wants very badly to kiss her again) hold hands or embrace again? Surely that would solve this silly problem and make it right again between them.
He's not comfortable when they're not in agreement. He's told her that. And oh, how charming she was, fretting about her hair; it gave him hope in those times before he was sure of her...Well. Sometimes he still feels unsure of her. She seems like a different person sometimes.
That's not quite right either. She's the same beautiful woman he's known for years but she's always been so much more... something.
And now, what used to be a small question has become an ugly, sprawling disagreement. It might have been easy to turn down the offer of decorating the Servants' Hall. For one, she's right: it isn't terribly enticing. For the other, well, it wasn't Lady Mary going out of her way to offer it, was it? Now it's become so complicated.
He wishes they didn't have to make this decision, that they could just accept what's given. Why must she want to get away? Now she's sitting there pleading with him to hear her and it's quite… difficult. He doesn't like this conflict. On top of everything else, he senses that it's building toward some kind of confrontation between Lady Mary and Mrs Hughes. The idea makes him feel ill.
She's offered to tell them herself and he wishes he could accept. But it should come from him. He wouldn't want to put her in that position. And it's his responsibility to speak for them. And he is hardly even aware of it, but really it's because he's the man, after all; he's the one for negotiations and decisions. It's his place (his duty) to speak with the Family on behalf of the two of them.
He wonders how the devil he's supposed to tell his Lordship. First that awkward business with the memorial committee and now this. How on earth can he turn down such an honor without offending him? Or worse, hurting Lady Mary?
He'll have to be very careful indeed about the way he says it.
Breakfast
He can't keep the frustration out of his tone. If he sounds sufficiently put-upon, if he makes her objections sound humble enough, maybe they'll forgive him. He's awfully glad she's not here to hear this.
They're supposed to accept it and then leave it alone. One doesn't cross class lines like that, hosting a servant's wedding reception in the grand rooms of the house, and Mrs Hughes is here to bring us all back into line. He hopes to appeal to his Lordship's sense of tradition. He tries not to think about how he's betrayed her, how he's failed her (he's mumbled something about claims to which we have no right. As if that were her reason. Ridiculous).
Oh no. No no no; it would have been fine if they'd just accepted it. But Lady Mary won't let it go and now he's actually hearing her say the words you leave Mrs Hughes to me and that sick feeling in his stomach has returned.
He barely registers what her Ladyship has said about Mrs Hughes seeing it differently. It's all moving too fast, and this wasn't how it was supposed to go.
Well. It wasn't supposed to go this way, no, but now he's feeling a bit more justified (only a little) in wanting this. He'd love to have the party here. Why can't she accept it?
"...have your reception in the Great Hall if it's the last thing I do."
How very reassuring indeed, he thinks grimly.
Pantry
She's always been so much more... something.
He's thinking that the 'something' is perhaps guarded, or controlled. The word reasonable flits through his mind. Yes, something like that. He's got a feeling she would get very cross with him if he called her 'unreasonable.'
He sighs, sitting there at his desk among his treasured bottles. She's flung the door open to leave, not bothering to close it behind her — and it's not lost on him that she took the nearest exit (she got away as quickly as she could) instead of the door she'd used to enter the room.
He's sure his face showed his confusion as she left.
Well, confusion ... and if he were one to use words like 'anger,' anger too, because she's being so damned stubborn about it.
And what the devil was she on about, with "We'll be doing it your way for the next thirty years"?
She must know that's not the case. He adores her, for God's sake. And he wouldn't be like that — oh, honestly! His way for the next thirty years. Not bloody likely. Who does she take him for, some kind of tyrant? He's always respected (loved) her independence and strength. He's not about to push his whims on her. He was ready to set her free if she didn't want him! So what's all this nonsense?
The only good thing about what she said was the bit about "thirty years." It might've made him smile, had the rest of this mess been not been so miserable.
Her upset doesn't make sense to him. Can't she see it's an honor? Is her sense of self so weak that she cannot be her, or they cannot be them, within the walls of this house?
It's where they met, after all. He thinks it rather romantic. And on that day, they certainly won't be servants. They won't. Had they been relegated to the servants' hall, their status would have been drearily obvious. He'd never have pushed her to accept that. But this... The fact that they're even offering the Great Hall for the reception means they won't be treated as servants on that day. Far from it. So what is she on about?
Why not honor their marriage in this beautiful house? They deserve it, after all these years. After all this loyalty. He's getting maudlin and he knows it, but this closely-guarded love of theirs is a treasure, a gem, a finely wrought work of art as intricate and beautiful as any piece of royal jewelry — it's like the wedding tiara worn by the ladies of the Family, he muses. An image of her in that tiara crosses his mind; he blinks it away.
They deserve it? Good lord, he sounds like an impertinent footman. The authoritarian in him wants to give himself a clip round the ear for thinking such things. He sounds like a foolhardy young thing, like a revolutionary. Him, a firebrand. What a joke.
But in his heart, the proud man who has served this family nearly all his life, who loves them and is loved in return with all the joy and the stupid pain it brings (butlers are a dime a dozen), that man is thrilled. The Family have been in his heart for such a long time, it feels achingly right that they should offer the grandest rooms in the house to celebrate the happiest event of his life. He is proud and pleased to accept it. They're not going to be servants on that day; the family is doing them a great honor.
They'll be more like family, really. Embraced at last into the family that's been within his reach (never, not really) all these years.
Why can't she see that?
It's not us, she said.
But Lady Mary wants to give this to them.
Her reassurances at breakfast are deeply unsettling. "Leave Mrs Hughes to me."
He knows he's misrepresented her. But — feeling like a petulant child, he keeps at it — but but—
He wants this. A reception in the Great Hall, what an enormous honor. He wants it more than he's wanted — well, almost anything. To be included in the family in such a way — ah, Mrs Hughes would laugh in his face at that. But what Lady Mary said is true; he has indeed worked in this house, man and boy, for nearly half a century. It seems as though he should have become part of the family by now, simply by absorption. Not that he wants to join them at tea or claim their name and prestige; no, that would be terribly inappropriate. But his heart is all wrapped around the pillars and banisters of this house, saturating its foundations with his blood, sweat, and tears —
Enough of that.
He's never seen her like this. He thought he'd seen her angry before — at him, when Charlie had landed in the workhouse. She was angry then, with sharp words and righteous indignation. But flying off the handle like this seems so unlike her. He knows she's not overly fond of Lady Mary; of course he does. But how could she not see the kindness behind the offer?
Well, apparently she does see it, but it's not enough.
He realizes that it was a bit wrong of him to say this isn't like her. It's difficult (frightening) to see her angry (really angry; he's never seen it before) but it's worse seeing her cry (it hurts, damn it).
But he's got his pride too (he's so lost when he confronts her emotions; he knows that this time he's the one who has put those tears in her eyes but it doesn't make sense and he's got no idea how to argue with that) and his stitched-up heart knows that he's right because what could it possibly hurt to have their party here?
He's always thought she was the stalwart one but who knew there was a girl hiding behind all that black cloth and sternness and strength? A darling girl, charming and bold and trembling. A girl whom he's kissed (good God, he's so lucky). A girl whose tumultuous heart wants something he isn't prepared to give her.
He'll have to try to explain it to her at the fair. Surely she'll see when he tells her how much it means to him.
Fair
He doesn't understand how this could be so unimportant to her. No, worse — how she could reject it. She doesn't think it's nothing; she thinks it's … oh it doesn't make sense (he needs her to know how much he loves this Family they serve).
"And Downton Abbey means much more to me than the school. I'm sorry, but it does."
There. He's said it; surely now she'll understand.
No. Amidst penned sheep and cows this former farm girl lowers her eyes and looks so bloody wounded. What's he supposed to do with that? He's hurt her, and it's all gone too far for them to turn around and change locations now, even if he wanted to.
And now, let's watch Canon Make It All Better. :)
Credit for the line "Who knew there was a girl hiding behind all that black [taffeta] belongs entirely to the brilliant kouw! Go read and review all of her fics. She's amazing.