A collaboration between Mestizza and me for textsfrommysiblingspartner as part of the Chelsie Holiday Exchange. We hope you've had a wonderful Christmas!
i. Past
Elsie Hughes huffed in frustration as she emerged from Stevenson & Son's Stationary Store in Ripon. This had been her fourth stop on her halfday and her little basket was still empty.
She made her way to the nearest tea shop, hoping that a warm cup of tea would bring the idea that countless visits to nearby stores hadn't.
When the young help had served the tea, Mrs. Hughes shook her head in annoyance with herself.
Mrs. Hughes. The title was still new, barely two months old. It filled her with satisfaction to have made it this far, to have her hard work respected and rewarded by her peers.
And yet, not being Elsie anymore took some getting used to. There were aspects of being a Housekeeper that she hadn't anticipated.
Such as whether Housekeeper and Butler exchanged gifts at Christmas. Mrs. Hughes was certain that she had seen Mrs. Winters and Mr. Carson exchange a little something the year before, but she had no idea what kind of gifts had been exchanged in the privacy of the Housekeeper's parlour.
She'd hate to ruin that first Christmas as Housekeeper by presenting the Butler with an inappropriate gift.
But what did one give a Butler? Especially one as proper and upstanding as Charles Carson. She would have thought him incredibly stiff (and dare she say boring), had she not accidentally stumbled upon him and the three small Ladies of the House one afternoon. Hidden in the shadows she had watched as he had tenderly soothed ruffled feathers, dried tears, and then proceeded to serve tea to the Ladies' dolls in his most imperious Butler manner.
While she had still been Head Housemaid, her interaction with the Butler had been limited. She had taken her orders from Mrs. Winters and only occasionally had to ask Mr. Carson for assistance. Ever since she had been promoted, however, hardly a minute went by in which they didn't have to confer about some house business or the other. Slowly, ever so slowly she was able to catch glimpses of the man behind the Butler's mask. There was wit there, an active mind - kindness when you least expected it.
There was nothing for it. She'd need to find a gift. Something that signalled that she was interested in a good working relationship with the man, but not something that could be seen as overly sentimental. Something that she was able to afford. With the money she sent home at the end of each month, there was only a little bit left over for her to spend.
With a sigh she emptied her tea cup and paid her bill before stepping back into the biting winter air. Maybe another stop at the Stationary Shop would reveal something she had missed before.
oOoOoOoOoOoO
The grandeur with which Christmas was celebrated at Downton still baffled her. There was no Christmas in Scotland, Hogmanay by law the only celebrated holiday. She sometimes found herself missing the traditions, the liveliness of the festivities.
But even by English standards, the Granthams went all out on Christmas and she quietly wondered whether the young Countess' origins had anything to do with that. It would have been unheard of in other houses for the servants to have some time to themselves on Christmas Day.
She found herself standing next to the other servants in the Servants' Hall and observed how footmen and maids opened the gifts their families and friends had given them.
"Mrs. Hughes?" The Butler's deep baritone voice broke into her musings. "Would you mind stepping into my pantry for a minute?"
She gave a curt nod and followed him. She had left his gift in her sitting room – just in case that he felt their short time working together didn't warrant an exchange of gifts.
He picked up a little parcel from his desk, looked undecided for a short moment before handing it to her. "It is customary for the Butler and Housekeeper to exchange a little something. Don't feel bad if you haven't known of the tradition, but I would hate to see it lost."
"Don't worry, Mr. Carson, I have planned ahead," she replied and was gratified by the appreciative nod she received in return.
It took her little time to retrieve his gift from her sitting room. She handed it to him, suddenly apprehensive.
After a second of hesitation both opened their gifts at the same time.
He eyed the bottle of ink in his hand critically. It wasn't his usual brand.
"It's supposed to dry quicker than the others. It should make writing in your ledgers easier and faster," she hastily explained.
"That's a very sensible gift, thank you."
While she would normally have considered 'sensible' to be a negative word in connection to presents, he didn't make it sound like it was criticism. Instead, it sounded almost like praise.
The wrapping of her gift meanwhile gave way to a small box, inside which she found an assortment of differently sized key rings.
"For your chatelaine," he said gruffly.
"Thank you, Mr. Carson. I'm sure they'll prove to be very useful."
ii. Present
There was nothing spectacular about this year. Their normal festivities had to be toned down - Mrs. Patmore's usual feast was scaled back significantly the last three years due to increased food prices. Bread, sugar, and butter among necessities that were now treated like luxury goods. But any sliver of a chance of having an elaborate extravaganza had been completely lost when it was announced that the heir of Grantham would not be home for Christmas.
Mrs. Hughes roamed the dimly lit corridors with a tea tray in hand, a small package balancing precariously between her fingers. The sound of her heels and jingling of her keys echoed in the otherwise silent hallway.
The house was especially empty these days. The little staff they did have had a makeshift celebration earlier in the evening. William had serenaded them all with his wonderful piano stylings. The laughter and merriment was a welcome change to the constant stress. Eventually, they had succumbed to their yawns and late hour. Quiet moments of rest were hard to come by. As the war progressed, the staff continued to be stretched thin. Gwen and Thomas had both happened to hand in their notices when the news was announced three years ago.
More notices soon followed.
The young lads searched for purpose at the front, fighting for justice and liberty, rather than in an aristocratic family's dining room. With the boys gone, the girls were needed at home. Or they found employ elsewhere, in munitions factories for instance. Needless to say, with these drastic changes over such a short time span, the standards of the household were no longer the same as they were at the turn of the century.
Finally arriving at Mr. Carson's pantry, she entered. He was waiting at his desk, and stood up to take the tray from her hands. Due to their hectic schedules, they hadn't had a chance for their annual exchange until it was almost no longer Christmas Day.
"It seems that everybody else has turned in," she told him as he set the tray down. She studied him silently while he poured their tea - he looked exhausted. "Maybe we should follow suit?"
"Not until we exchange gifts. Traditions must be upheld even in the darkest of times."
She bit down on the ghost of a smile that threatened to cross her lips, and shook her head. He was a creature of habit, always trying to hang onto tradition. Now that it was clear that nothing would ever be the same, he was even more reluctant to relinquish his hold on the past. "Oh, Mr. Carson…"
With a small sigh she passed her gift to him, its wrapping functional rather than beautiful. Plain brown paper held together by a string - a far cry from the pretty red and golden paper they had used before the war.
Carefully, he tugged at the string and unwrapped it, revealing a pair of knit wool socks. He picked one up, and carefully ran his fingers over the soft garment. "Did you make these?" he asked in awe.
"Don't worry about it, Mr. Carson," she shrugged it off. "It's really nothing special. I've been doing a lot of knitting for the soldiers."
There was no need for him to know that she had used a special, more elaborate pattern for his socks; that the balls of sock yarn she had used for his gift had come from her private reserve – the last two balls of the softest cotton wool she still possessed.
"I simply thought a little extra comfort for the cold winter months couldn't hurt," she added quickly.
He turned it over in his hand, examining each deliberate stitch. She had clearly put a lot of time and effort into this gift. "I don't know what to say," he finally looked up at her. "Thank you, Mrs. Hughes."
Hesitating, he passed her a tin box. "It's not much…" he trailed off. After her thoughtful gift, how could his possibly compare?
She took the tin, wondering what it could possibly be. She lifted the lid, and her jaw dropped when she saw what lay inside. An assortment of her favourite Belgian chocolate pralines - the kind that hadn't been readily available in stores since the outbreak of war.
"Where on earth did you get this?" she asked.
"Oh, I have my ways…" He leaned back and allowed a conspiratorial smile to cross his features. Unexpected warmth flowed through him at her pleased reaction.
She glanced down at the sweets and then back up at him. "I can't possibly eat all of them by myself!"
"Mrs. Hughes, these are your chocolates," he reminded her gently. "Do with them what you wish."
"I'll keep that in mind," she smiled softly. "Would you like to have a piece with your tea?"
"No thank you, Mrs Hughes," he declined, shaking his head. Motioning to the boxes, he continued, "But please, go ahead."
"I really shouldn't…" She bit her lip and examined the chocolates before her. They were so tantalizing. Finally succumbing to temptation, she selected one, and popped it in her mouth. Mr Carson watched as she closed her eyes and let it melt in her mouth, savouring the sweet delectable taste. "Mmm…" she hummed. "This is delicious."
"I'm glad." He wasn't quite sure what else to say.
The rest of the evening was spent in comfortable silence as they sipped their tea - both grateful to be in the company of a friend.
oOoOoOoOoOoOoO
The next day he found the box of chocolates in the middle of the table in the Servants' Hall.
Maids and Footmen were gleefully taking pralines from the box, visibly savouring their sweet taste.
He glared at her questioningly but she simply shrugged, a little smile on her face.
He should have known she wouldn't keep the chocolates for herself, that she would selflessly share these little pleasures with the rest of the servants.
In that moment he swore to himself that someday when all this horror was behind them, she would receive a gift that would be hers and only hers.
iii. Future
She awoke with his arm draped across her waist. She turned her head, to see his eyes fluttering open. Rolling over, she kissed him gently; he hummed in response.
"Merry Christmas, Mr. Carson," she smiled lazily.
He quickly brushed his lips over hers. "Merry Christmas, Mrs. Carson."
Mrs. Carson. The title was still new, barely six months old. It still made her heart flutter every time she heard it spoken aloud. She was incredibly happy to have made it this far, to be rewarded in her retirement, to have chosen to settle down with such a wonderful husband.
Her leg slid up, traced over the jut of his hip until she was mostly on top of him. She liked the way her words vibrated against his cheek. "Don't you want to unwrap your present?"
"It is tradition," the corners of his mouth curled, and the soft brush of his palms on her back over her nightgown made her shiver.
"Well, come on then," she smiled wickedly and rolled off of him; getting out of bed before he had the chance to pull her back.
He huffed in pretend frustration before getting up as well, allowing her to take his hand and pull him to their sitting room.
Their small tree stood near the fireplace, the decorations few but tasteful. She walked over to the tree and picked up the two parcels lying there. One was a small box, while the other was much wider.
Settling down on the settee, she handed the larger package to him and smiled prettily. "Go on, open it," she urged.
"No, my dear, Ladies first."
"I'm hardly a Lady," she scoffed but then began to eagerly unwrap the little box she held in her hands. It was long and slender, and she wondered what it could possibly contain.
She gasped when she lifted the lid, her eyes filling with tears at the sight of the elaborate beaded necklace. Realizing that they were in fact real pearls, she bit her lip, trying to quell the surge of emotion that rose within her.
"It's too much," she whispered - but her fingers tenderly ran along the single strand of white pearls.
"Go on, try it," urged her husband. Elsie picked it up, and gracefully placed it around her neck, letting it fall against her bust. She felt a little bit ridiculous wearing such gorgeous jewelry in her nightgown.
He must have sensed her discomfort because he reached for her hand. "We already have everything we need. I thought I could indulge you and give you something you might want. It's time for us to live a little."
She raised an eyebrow. "You're using my words against me."
"They're very wise words," he pointed out.
She ran her fingers over her necklace in thought. "Do you think that perhaps we might have already lived a lot?"
His brows furrow. "What do you mean?"
She nudged the package in his hands. "Open it."
He glanced down curiously at the box. Lifting the lid, he smiled when he realized it was an album. He picked it up, and carefully opened it to the first page. A picture of them on their wedding day graced the page, with the words "Our Story" written out in her unmistakable calligraphy.
Wringing her hands in her lap, she tried to gauge his reaction when he turned the page.
He stared at the picture on the next page with an indescribable look on his face. "What made you think of that?"
She smiled softly at him, her hand coming up to cover his. "Because it's you, all of this is part of you. It made you who you are and you shouldn't forget it."
He put his hand on hers and squeezed gently before returning his eyes to the Cheerful Charlies pamphlet. How young he had been, how foolish.
With a small sigh he turned the divider page and instantly his face brightened. A young Elsie Hughes was smiling at him. She stood in front of a barn, her arm draped around a smaller girl- presumably her sister.
"Adorable," he teased and she lightly slapped his shoulder.
There were staff photos from different eras and together they reminisced over William, Gwen and other servants they had cared for over the years.
Both chuckled quietly when Charles turned a page and found the infamous Brighton postcard on it. He ran a tender finger along its edges.
"That was a lovely day," he said softly, "It was a lovely idea."
"It was all yours," she deflected the compliment.
He shook his head and took her hand again. "You were, are and will always be a little plotter." He pressed a tender kiss to the back of her hand before turning his attention back to the album.
There were more pictures of them, taken at different functions - some of which he had never seen before.
"This was a lovely idea, thank you so much for it," he rumbled quietly and she tenderly put her hand to his cheek, glad that he appreciated her gift.
"There are quite a few blank pages left, though," he noted, closing the album to put it on the coffee table in front of him.
"That, my dear husband," she began before gingerly sitting down on his lap, enjoying the way his hands encircled her waist and held her protectively, "Is because we haven't reached the end of our story yet."