Author's Notes: For those of you lovely people who read and commented and messaged me about this story, thank you sooo much! It is (finally!) complete, 1 - Spring & Summer, 2 - Autumn and Winter.

No spring nor summer beauty hath such grace as I have seen in one autumnal face.

- John Donne

Spring

There is something stirring around them, Elsie feels, perceives it in the gentle sweeping of grass, in the gliding brushstrokes of colour and sunlight painting in the new year. The snow has melted and given way to new earth, to the fresh, clean smell of life and the skies are filled with birdsong once more.

And she feels a shifting of the planes beneath their feet, in the upstairs moving forward and the downstairs moving on, and in the breeze of promise changing its course, rustling through the trees outside as she finishes her rotas for the evening.

From the servants' hall, she can hear Mr Carson's bellowing voice, his deep timbre commanding, imposing and she smiles in amusement, in comfort that there are some things which would remain.

Expects to see his face like thunder then, when he knocks at her door but he is all sunny disposition, at ease and relaxed after a long day's work.

"They didn't finish this, and they're away tomorrow, so I thought we might," he says, and his voice is honeyed, warm and melting her with those dulcet tones. "It's a favourite of mine."

And she hopes indeed, that there may be something new here, in the gentle curve of his smile when they are alone like this, as he pours her wine with a flourish, that there could something flickering in the light of his eyes when his brow softens in just that way.

Because she is almost sure now, almost but not quite, there is a newfound energy teeming beneath his reserve, something yielding, pliant behind the straight back and broad set of shoulders as they sit down together.

That this is a proposal more than of the business venturing sort, and Elsie prays in her heart of hearts that her own eyes are not deceiving her, that all her talk of the times changing have not fallen on deaf ears and he has heard her at last, anew, and the prospect of a shared future is now ripe and burgeoning between them.

"These four are our real contenders," he says. "Three good sized bedrooms, a bathroom already installed and a room off the kitchen for a maid."

That there really is an excitement in him, an almost youthful animation as he pushes the folder across the little table between them, gestures for her to open it and read through his careful research.

Elsie smiles at him warmly, teasingly. "And where's the butler's pantry?" she asks.

He smiles in return. "If we're offering bed and breakfast, there should be someone there to run it."

And she does not know, she has not yet decided what this all means, but the seeds of hope have been sown within her and she feels it. Hopes that this world reborn may be more forgiving, that it might have a small space for a Butler and Housekeeper to exist beyond the walls of their station, perhaps to offer them a little cottage of their own to call home.

"We should go and look at them," he decides. "And then we'll talk."

And Elsie senses his eyes on her face that night, as they sip their wine companionably; the soft, loving gaze directed her way and she thinks that just maybe, perhaps he might feel it too.

Summer

Then the flowers are in full bloom, and they have traipsed all across the village and just beyond, have walked side by side in every little lane, the sleeve of his coat brushed against hers.

Have stood huddled together under the guise of a broken roof, in the roughage of an unruly garden, and by the empty hearth of a dampened fire in an old drawing room or six.

And Elsie has rejoiced in the quiet intimacy of taking their half days together, in the way he proffers his arm when they've walked a far way, where there is a little hike after the road in Helmsley.

Delights in the small gesture when they stop for stamps at the post office, or for cake at the little tea shop on the way home and he pays her way with insistence, with a gallant wave of his hand.

The way he passes her his bowler hat to hold this afternoon, as they survey the house on Brouncker Road.

"Well," Mr Carson says then, as they reach the bottom of the stairs. "I really think this might be the one, Mrs Hughes."

And the air is warm now, humid and she is stifled beneath her collar, stuffy and restrained by the endless confines of clothing, by layers of meaning weighing down upon them.

She nods uncertainly, prompts him with the raising of her brow. "Do you, indeed?"

Because she still does not know where this winding path may lead, cannot make out his true meaning when he hides behind the fences of propriety, of properties and professional propositions.

"Oh yes," he says. "It is very happily situated, close enough to the Abbey for us to walk, and as you said, the rooms are uncommonly cosy."

She looks down at her hands, at his hat held tenderly between them. Thinks that this is just his way, that these are new waters and he is uneasy, shin deep in their changing tides and she must be the one to steady him, to guide.

Thinks perhaps that even he does not know yet for certain, what may come if they brought their friendship out of the shadows, into the harsh light of day.

"But do you like it, Mrs Hughes? Can you envision us in this place —" he pauses then, and she sees widening of his eyes taper, disappear quickly, "—working well here, together?"

Elsie blinks up at him once, twice, tucks in her chin and smiles. "I'm sure I could see us very happy here together, Mr Carson."