This is just something I made up between watching the Downton series. This story is set during season 3 or 4, and I thought of it a while before seeing the last season and the trouble Mr. and Mrs. Carson really had in their kitchen. If you're looking for romance you won't find it here. I tried hard to keep the distance between this pair, this close friendship that is almost something more, but it is not love just yet, at least not on one side. I tried to write something simple, but it was not easy doing it. :)
So, I hope you enjoy this story, and I would be delighted if you'd be kind enough to leave me a review.
Mr. Carson made his way through the unusually quiet hall downstairs at Downton Abbey. It was late afternoon, and the butler didn't remember it being so quiet around here, not in this year at least. A soft rustling from the kitchen made him realize that at least Mrs. Patmore was still where she should be, and Mr. Carson walked swiftly into the room.
"Mrs. Hughes?"
The housekeeper looked up at him in slight surprise. Her light blue eyes gleamed happily as she sent a small smile in his way. "Mr. Carson! I didn't hear you coming," she said and turned her attention back at the carrot she was slicing.
Mrs. Hughes's black dress was covered with a white apron, making her look like the housemaid she used to be. She was standing behind the kitchen table, cutting vegetables; there were carrots, cabbages, cucumbers, tomatoes, and other vegetables that Mr. Carson didn't recognize on the table around her. And there was no sign of Mrs. Patmore anywhere.
"What on Earth are you doing in here?" Mr. Carson asked, approaching the housekeeper's workspace.
"Oh, just helping out," Mrs. Hughes answered without raising her look from her task. "We gave the maids and the footmen our permission to go to the fair, if you remember," she explained, looking up at Mr. Carson. "That was before we were informed that the Dowager and Mrs. Crawley are coming to dinner tonight."
"But where is Mrs. Patmore? She should be arranging things. And we must call the footmen and Daisy back if we're to prepare a dinner that is up to the standards of this house," Mr. Carson said, quite annoyed that he had forgotten about the fair.
"No," Mrs. Hughes replied decisively. "I wouldn't want to spoil their fun. As for Mrs. Patmore, she's gone to the village to get some things for the desserts. And she's entrusted me - quite reluctantly, I must add - with the salads, and chicken, and soup." She turned and went to stir the soup on the stove.
Mr. Carson remembered now the late notice of the dinner party. And how very inconvenient that all the young had gone just today! But there was not much to be done about it now, was there?
"But you're the housekeeper, not a kitchen maid," Mr. Carson said in a disbelieving tone.
"No, but in an emergency like this one I don't think the titles matter much."
Mrs. Hughes turned around again and continued with the vegetables. Mr. Carson watched her in silence for about a minute, before walking around the table himself.
"Mr. Carson? Whatever are you doing?" Mrs. Hughes asked in bewilderment when the butler took himself a knife.
"I think I ought to help. There's not much time to waste, as it is, Mrs. Hughes," he answered and took a cucumber to cut.
"I didn't know you cooked." Mrs. Hughes's tone held a small amount of amazement in it, and her sweet brogue made it sound very endearing.
"I don't," the butler replied sternly. "But it's an emergency, isn't it?"
"It is, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes agreed, but couldn't continue on her task. "But you must get an apron for yourself, or you'll get yourself stained," she said as she went to take one out of the kitchen cupboard.
"Now, there's no need for that," Mr. Carson disagreed, already humiliated enough to be a butler helping out in the kitchen. But due to his own clumsiness, a slice of cucumber flew against his white shirt.
Triumphantly, Mrs. Hughes said, "That's exactly what I mean. Now, don't be afraid, I won't tell anyone I saw you like this." And she smiled a little at the thought that not even Mrs. Patmore would know that Mr. Carson had been so close to being a kitchen maid.
"Oh, alright, I give in," he said resignedly. He didn't actually mind the apron, because he used one himself when he was polishing silver, but the meaning of it - the lower class of kitchen maids, lower at least than a butler's. "Would you mind helping me with it?"
Mr. Carson put the apron on, and Mrs. Hughes went behind him to tie it up.
"There," she said when she finished. "That should do the trick." She watched for a moment in silence as the butler worked. "Do you know what you are doing?"
"I shall count on you to assist me," he replied with a smile.
"That I will do, never you fear."
And she did. Every now and then Mrs. Hughes instructed Mr. Carson, and he obliged very willingly. The rest of the time passed in comfortable silence. The two of them kept glancing at each other every now and again.
They were dear friends. Working on one purpose - to keep the house and the family's honour safe - for most of their lives, they had grown closer than they ever could have thought. And it was a nice and comfortable friendship. They could go to each other with their problems, and they could gossip about the people at Downton. But right now they were both preparing a dinner for the family, and it took all of their attention.
"Oh my Lord!" Mrs. Hughes exclaimed in about fifteen minutes of making salad and preparing chicken. She turned on her heel quickly. "I forgot the soup!"
As she went to stir it again, and to her great relief it looked just as good as it had before, Mr. Carson came to stand behind her.
"Have you tasted it?" he asked casually.
"It's too hot," Mrs. Hughes replied.
"It can't be that hot," he argued, and took the spoon. "Mrs. Patmore and Daisy do it all the time. And if it's not too hot for a cook I doubt it will be too hot for a butler." Under Mrs. Hughes's disapproving look, he tasted the soup. It wasn't too hot at all.
When his face turned into an unpleasant grimace, Mrs. Hughes asked, alarmed, "Is something wrong? Is it not good?"
The answer delayed. "I think you've forgotten the salt, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson replied after considering it. "I believe that's it."
"Oh, silly me," Mrs. Hughes said with a short laugh. She looked around, saw what she needed, and handed Mr. Carson the salt cellar, his hand outstretched for it.
"How will you know how much to put in it?" Mrs. Hughes asked, amazed at how at ease Mr. Carson was by the stove. She was always afraid of getting burned.
"I don't," he replied and sprinkled some of the white flavouring into the pot. "We will just have to hope it will be the right amount."
When they returned to the table, Mr. Carson made a quick movement to stuff one of the snacks Mrs. Hughes had prepared into his mouth.
"Mr. Carson! We are here to make food, and not eat any of it," Mrs. Hughes scolded although a smile played on her lips. He resembled so much a child in the wrong, quickly eating something not meant for him.
"I am very well aware of that," Mr. Carson said, turning his expression into one of formality. "And I have no idea what you are referring to."
She smiled fondly at that, and he returned the gesture.
"And by the way, you are an excellent cook," he added, watching her take the griddle with chicken in her hands.
"Oh, tosh!" Mrs. Hughes said, smiling. "I haven't cooked anything in at least five years, let alone prepared a dinner for the family. Now, will you help me with the oven?" she asked, looking helplessly at the griddle and the closed oven door.
"Of course," Mr. Carson replied quickly and went to open the oven door, using a cloth to keep from burning himself.
He watched with delight as Mrs. Hughes put the griddle in the oven. There was that adorable concentrated look on her face, her eyes watching sharply that everything went right, and her lips pressed together firmly.
The griddle landed nicely, but just as Mr. Carson was about to close the oven door, Mrs. Hughes gasped in pain and grabbed hold of her left hand with her other one. "Talk about a good cook," she muttered, with a pained expression on her face.
"Did you burn yourself?" Mr. Carson asked worriedly, shutting the oven door and standing closer to the housekeeper.
Under Mr. Carson's concerned look, Mrs. Hughes tried to smile and straighten up. "Oh, it's nothing," she said, trying and succeeding to sound unconcerned. "I'll live."
"May I?" Mr. Carson asked warily.
Mrs. Hughes was surprised, but gave him her hand silently. Mr. Carson looked concernedly at the bright red burn mark in her palm, and when he looked up, he saw pain in Mrs. Hughes's eyes. He held on to her hand just a moment longer than was necessary. His touch was soothing for her, it was kind, and gentle because of the concern to accidentally hurt her more.
"I will get some ice for you," Mr. Carson finally said after a long moment of silence. "And then a bandage." And he let go of her hand and turned to go to Mrs. Patmore's storage.
In a minute or two he came back, and stopping on his way to find a bandage, he stuffed the pieces of ice he had brought with him into Mrs. Hughes's hand. The housekeeper winced in pain, but sent a little bit miserable smile up at him for his kindness. The butler held her gaze for a moment, and then retreated into his pantry to bring a bandage.
Mrs. Hughes watched him fuss around silently. Had it not been for her hurting hand, she would have smiled endearingly at the butler's efforts to help her. He was never a sentimental person, quite the opposite actually. But even he had his weak spots, and Mrs. Hughes noted with not too much surprise that she was one of them. Her hand wasn't that bad, but it was lovely to see him worry so much about it.
Mr. Carson returned shortly, making his way into the kitchen in a fast pace, to not keep Mrs. Hughes waiting.
"Now, I'm not an expert," Mr. Carson said when Mrs. Hughes set the ice pieces away; they had done their job of reducing the pain. "But this should do until you can go to the doctor." He took Mrs. Hughes's hand and gently started to wrap the white bandage around it.
"I don't think there's really a need to," Mrs. Hughes disagreed, collected. "I can still cook."
Mr. Carson's fingers trailed the skin of her hand fondly as he finished with the bandage. He held on to her hand gently, and the both of them smiled at one another. "If you say so," he replied in the end, and their hands lost contact.
"Thank you," Mrs. Hughes said, eyeing her attended hand. It was a much better job he had done than she knew Mrs. Patmore was capable of. In a moment she turned her bright eyes towards the butler again. "How's that salad doing?"
They continued with the cooking, although not in silence anymore. Neither of them really liked to be silent around each other. They always had lots to talk about: the life upstairs, Lady Edith's misfortunes, Lady Mary's men, and the life downstairs, the relationships, the work. And all this talk went on with a light and happy atmosphere in the kitchen.
Apart from one carrot that fell and rolled under the cupboard, so that Mrs. Hughes had quite a lot of trouble getting it out, everything went well with the food. While the housekeeper fetched the runaway vegetable, Mr. Carson had a chance to taste Mrs. Hughes's biscuits. He had never eaten biscuits so sweet and perfectly crispy. They hadn't been on Mrs. Patmore's menu, and if the family wouldn't want them, Mr. Carson would be happy to have them for himself.
"I saw that," Mrs. Hughes said sharply, although a smile graced her lips. She set aside the wandering carrot, and with a smirk, she picked one biscuit herself. When she closed her eyes in the bliss of the delightful taste, she felt a hand brush past her. Mrs. Hughes opened her eyes to see another biscuit missing from the tray. When she looked up at Mr. Carson, the butler swallowed and gave her his most innocent look.
By the time Mrs. Patmore was back Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson were enjoying the cooking in each other's company. When the cook stepped into the kitchen, the butler was taking the griddle with a perfectly cooked chicken out of the oven, and Mrs. Hughes closed the oven door; they were laughing happily about something or another.
Mrs. Patmore was shocked, to say the least, at the sight of Mr. Carson in the kitchen. Not that she thought he couldn't cook, but it was just very unlike him to turn a blind eye to his dignity and do the work of a kitchen maid rather than the butler's. But she wasn't exactly surprised at how well the butler and housekeeper were getting on. They were like a mother and a father for the maids and footmen at Downton, and more often than not could be seen side by side, whether arguing or agreeing.
But when Mr. Carson set the griddle on the table and Mrs. Hughes turned to get a platter for it, Mrs. Patmore was really astounded to see how the butler watched Mrs. Hughes. His look was full of admiration and happiness, his eyes reflected deep feelings. Mrs. Patmore gasped quietly when she realized that Mr. Carson loved the housekeeper.
At the sound of Mrs. Patmore's sudden intake of breath Mrs. Hughes almost dropped the platter she was holding, and Mr. Carson hurried to catch it. While the dish remained safely in Mrs. Hughes's hands, the both of them smiled up at each other in amusement and then turned to the cook.
"Oh, Mrs. Patmore, we didn't hear you coming in," Mrs. Hughes said as she put the platter on the kitchen table. For a moment she wondered whether she should pull off Mr. Carson's apron that the man had clearly forgotten about himself, and pretend he had just been there to supervise; he didn't want anyone but her to know he had cooked. But she let the idea rest because Mr. Carson seemed to have already given in to the fact that Mrs. Patmore would now also know about his cooking.
"No, you couldn't have," Mrs. Patmore replied blankly, looking closely between the two people in front of her.
"This is just..." Mr. Carson had finally realized he was still wearing the apron, and quickly started to take it off. "I was only checking if everything was going alright for the upcoming dinner."
"Sure you were," Mrs. Patmore said disbelievingly and crossed the room in quick strides. "How's it going then?" she then asked, eyeing the foods that were being prepared on the kitchen table. "I see you haven't burned the house down yet, that's well done. And everything seems right. I hope you did just as I instructed you. What's with the biscuits? I don't remember having them on the menu."
Mr. Carson put the apron on a nearby cupboard and slipped away silently, exchanging a knowing look and a smile with Mrs. Hughes.
When the dinner was being served Mrs. Hughes continued to help Mrs. Patmore in the kitchen, and she also took the trays upstairs where Mr. Carson took them into the dining room. During the courses it was more peaceful downstairs as Mrs. Patmore was adding the last touches to the desserts and Mrs. Hughes didn't have much to do.
"Oh, what is this doing here?" Mrs. Patmore suddenly asked, picking up the salt cellar that Mrs. Hughes and Mr. Carson had used while making the soup. Mrs. Patmore took the thing to the other side of the room and put it in a high cupboard. "I told Alfred not to leave them lying around. Someone might mistake them for ordinary flavourings."
Mrs. Hughes's heart missed a beat at that. "Do you mean to say that... that this is not ordinary salt?" she asked warily.
"No, it's not," Mrs. Patmore answered, returning to the table. "I've allowed Alfred to keep some of his food spices in one of the cupboards. The boy's quite fond of cooking, you know. I wouldn't know what it was in there." She stopped when she saw the perplexed expression on Mrs. Hughes's face.
The housekeeper stood up from her chair quickly and smoothed down her dress nervously, her hands shaking just a little. "I- I must go," she stammered. "If you'll excuse me."
She all but ran out of the kitchen and up the stairs. She had to stop the family from eating the soup that she didn't know what was in. In the upstairs hall just outside the dining room she almost ran into Mr. Carson. She was panting slightly, and pressed her hand to her chest to slow down her racing heart.
"Mrs. Hughes? What are you doing up here? And without a tray?" Mr. Carson asked curiously.
"It wasn't salt," Mrs. Hughes panted.
"I beg your pardon?" he didn't understand.
"It wasn't salt, Mr. Carson, that we put in the soup," the housekeeper explained again, more calmly this time. "It was one of Alfred's food spices, so we cannot know what was in there. Please tell me they haven't already started with the soup." She looked at Mr. Carson quizzically.
"They've just started," Mr. Carson stated, and as realization struck him, he hurried back into the dining room.
Mrs. Hughes was left standing behind the dining room door, waiting nervously for Mr. Carson to tell her what was happening in the room. She felt like a child ready to be rebuked for her misbehaving, when in truth, she had made a simple mistake of not tasting the soup before it was sent upstairs. She couldn't help imagining the disappointed faces of the family, and Mrs. Patmore's loud reprimands. It wasn't enough that she had worked harder today than she had for the entire year, she had to be scolded about it, too.
Mrs. Hughes's frightful expression did not change when Mr. Carson stepped into the hall again a few minutes later. "Well?" she asked anxiously.
Mr. Carson's expression was one of amusement, making the housekeeper nervous. "They love the soup," Mr. Carson said proudly, and chuckled when Mrs. Hughes let out a great sigh of relief. "They believed Mrs. Patmore had discovered a new recipe, and told me to congratulate her."
Mrs. Hughes's now happy face fell. "But she didn't make the soup," she said, hoping that the butler had dared to tell the family that their dinner was not prepared by a cook but rather a housekeeper and a butler. But that was too much to expect from Mr. Carson. He was a man of rules and standards, and when something was not right he tried to speak as less as possible about it.
"Yes, but they don't need to know that," Mr. Carson responded officially.
"And that's why I worked my buns off today then." Mr. Carson couldn't understand why Mrs. Hughes's voice was so cheerless and disappointed as she said this. She turned around silently and left for downstairs.
"Is the next course ready?" Mr. Carson asked casually, following her.
"Yes. You can get it yourself," Mrs. Hughes answered in an annoyed tone as she descended the stairs. Her pace was just a little bit faster than usually, although she didn't notice it herself.
"Now, there's no need to be snooty, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson said calmly from behind her.
They reached the downstairs corridor, and Mrs. Hughes turned to the butler with a fiery glint in her eyes. "I have a headache, Mr. Carson. If you would excuse me?" she said in her most impertinent manner, and without waiting for an answer she turned on her heel and hastened into her sitting room.
For a moment Mr. Carson gaped after the housekeeper for such behaviour, but then he remembered why he was down there and he hurried into the kitchen for a tray to take upstairs. She had always been a woman of mystery to him, so kind, and yet so fierce at times. He wondered what he had done wrong to deserve such treatment. She never lost her temper without a good cause, and even if there was one it was unlikely she would. She didn't mean to hurt him with her disappointed tone and sharp words of excuse, but he was hurt. He was hurt because he had caused his dearest friend to feel so bad. But he couldn't understand what it was that he had done to her.
Carrying up the tray to the dining room, he saw a plate of delicious biscuits on it - Mrs. Hughes's biscuits. And then he understood.
Mrs. Hughes shut her sitting room's door, and moved to her desk. Sinking into her chair, she sighed again. She was frustrated. She knew it was vain but she wished to get some credit for the work she had done today. And Mr. Carson hadn't even mentioned it to the family!
Mrs. Hughes was not a selfish person. She was kind and considerate, never seeking fame for being there for everyone. But sometimes people crack. And Mr. Carson's behaviour was the last drop in her cup before it overflowed. They had had such a good time, after all. Why couldn't he have just admitted to the family that this dinner was not a standard one?
Mrs. Hughes tried to focus on her paperwork, but these thoughts kept her preoccupied. It had been a long day, and she was dead tired of it all.
Maybe she had been too rude to leave Mr. Carson to deal with the dinner alone. Maybe she should have ignored this implied insult to her, just as she always did with the ones that were said right to her face by the butler. He was under a lot of pressure as well because of the three of them - with Mrs. Patmore - having to prepare the whole dinner. Maybe she should have been more considerate.
With these worrying thoughts Mrs. Hughes saw her pen drop from her hand, and her vision became blurry. Before soon she rested her head on her hands on the desk, and fell into well deserved sleep.
Later in the night, Mr. Carson knocked on the housekeeper's sitting room's door. He waited patiently for an answer, but none came, so the butler slowly pushed the door open, and entered. The room was poorly lit, but as comfy as ever. The butler closed the door behind him, and when he turned around to look around the room, he finally saw Mrs. Hughes.
Mr. Carson silently walked over to the woman asleep behind her desk. Her upper body was leaning against the table, and her head was resting on her hands. Mr. Carson's first thought was to awaken Mrs. Hughes, but he couldn't bring himself to interrupt this peaceful slumber.
With a small loving smile on his lips, Mr. Carson silently watched Mrs. Hughes. Her breathing was quiet, undisturbed. The dim light in the room sent a scant shadow over her lovely face. Her ebony hair had a nice glint in it from the tricky light. Her features were relaxed, and a slight smile graced her perfect light pink lips.
Mr. Carson had noticed quite some time ago that Mrs. Hughes was a very beautiful woman, but never before had he been so convinced. He admired this woman, for her good looks and for her inner beauty. One could not find a kinder soul than Mrs. Hughes at Downton.
After a short while, Mr. Carson realized that he hadn't come to watch Mrs. Hughes sleep, but to apologize to her. So he cleared his throat and said, "Mrs. Hughes." The housekeeper didn't stir. "Mrs. Hughes, it's time for you to get up," he tried again.
This time a sleepy smile formed on her lips, and Mrs. Hughes slowly opened her eyes. Recognizing the butler's form in front of her, she quickly sat up, fixing her hair with one hand.
"Mr. Carson!" she said in surprise. "What are you doing here? Oh, I must have dozed off." She stopped, a little taken aback by the kind expression on Mr. Carson's face. "What time is it?" she asked hesitantly.
Her mind was a blur from the sleep, and she couldn't quite remember falling asleep. But she did remember her conflict with Mr. Carson. Mrs. Hughes was confused to find the man watching her with a smile. She wondered if he had been there for long before awaking her.
"It's past midnight," Mr. Carson answered the last question. "The family has gone to bed some time ago, and the maids and footmen are all back and in their rooms." He watched as Mrs. Hughes hurriedly stood up and swayed just a little bit on the spot.
"Well then, that's all very nice," Mrs. Hughes said, avoiding Mr. Carson's gaze. "I should get to bed myself now." She wanted to leave before the two of them could continue their fight. She never wanted to disagree with him, but when she did, she tried to avoid talking about it as much as possible. Usually the strife would settle itself out, and they would go on as good friends.
"The family was very sad to hear that you had excused yourself with a headache," Mr. Carson said, stopping Mrs. Hughes from turning to leave. "They sent their thanks to you for everything you did today." He was satisfied to see Mrs. Hughes look up at him in disbelief.
"What are you saying?" Mrs. Hughes asked warily. She looked up into Mr. Carson's smiling eyes, and at his calm expression. He was not here to quarrel again. "Do you mean you told them?"
"I did," Mr. Carson replied in his rich voice. "And they offered you a day off tomorrow for your good work." He watched as a smile crept onto Mrs. Hughes's face, and she looked down.
Mrs. Hughes was surprised, to say the least, at Mr. Carson's act, but pleased nevertheless. In some way she had beaten him. Had it been her wrath or his guilty conscience that dragged him into it, he had made it up for her. Mrs. Hughes had wanted nothing more than a little credit for her work, and Mr. Carson's next words were clearly much more than she could have hoped for.
"I am sorry, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson said as bravely as he could. "I should have realized how hard you had worked today, and I should have given up my principles to tell the family sooner of your achievements in the kitchen." His eyes now held an apologetic look in them, and he watched the housekeeper with a sad smile.
Mrs. Hughes was dumbstruck by the butler's words. Of all the things he could have said, of all the sharp remarks and humorous comments, this was something she hadn't been ready for. For some reason she was glad to hear Mr. Carson's apology, yet she felt like he was not the only one at fault in their little fight.
"Our achievements," Mrs. Hughes kindly corrected the butler. She smiled trustingly at Mr. Carson, and he smiled back. In his eyes Mrs. Hughes could see gratefulness and admiration. "Have you been given a day off, too?" she then asked, and at the butler's questioning look, she added, "You told them, didn't you? That you helped me in the kitchen. It was not just my soup that they liked so much."
Mr. Carson sighed in resignation. "I might have told them that I helped you," he admitted. "And they might have offered me a free day, but I shall not accept it." He straightened up in his official manner.
"Oh, of course you will," Mrs. Hughes argued. "You didn't think I'd be going anywhere alone, did you?"
At Mr. Carson's quizzical look, Mrs. Hughes smiled. "We could go to the fair ourselves," she offered. "Go on, it won't be any fun without you."
Mr. Carson's expression softened. "Well, if you really insist," he said, a happy tone hidden in his voice. "I should like to come with you, Mrs. Hughes."
"Then it's settled," Mrs. Hughes said in satisfaction. "It was nice day we had, you know, Mr. Carson," she added, his name getting lost in the yawn that escaped her.
"It was," he agreed, smiling.
The next day was going to be a nice one as well. But nothing could top the moments the butler and housekeeper had shared in the kitchen.