A/N: This is a birthday fic for dibdab4/elliehopaunt/Jenny. I find it hard to put into words how much her friendship means to me. It is, hands down, one of the most valuable things that this Downton/Chelsie fandom has brought to my life.
Jenny and I discussed doing a Hughes/Patmore fic ages ago, one that would trace the development of their friendship from the store cupboard key fights of S1 to the closeness we saw at the end of S6. Oddly (to me, anyhow) there's only been one other such story written that I could find, and I'm not sure if it's still going. That said, I'm not trying to step on anyone else's toes, just moving forward with a really old discussion and idea.
Happy Birthday, my dear, lovely Jenny. I love you to the moon and back. xxx
Beryl wakes slowly as morning dawns, the cold, frosty air making the breath fog before her face as she yawns. She stretches with a soft groan and her eyes catch the empty bed of the tweenie, who was up an hour prior to get the fires going. It's been years since she, herself, was in the unfortunate girl's position. But Beryl will never forget those early months in service, the ones with too little sleep, early mornings when slipping into the upstairs rooms of titled gentlemen presented a 'special' set of challenges. Coming to Downton had been a blessing in that regard, and Beryl is relieved that she doesn't have to worry about the young girl in this house.
She rolls over and peeks toward the window, awake enough now to notice the sleet that's pelting the glass. Even after five years of living here, the slightly colder temperatures here compared to her childhood home never cease to amaze her. With a shiver, she grumbles once again that her room isn't downstairs where the cook sleeps, a futile wish for more warmth in winter and cooler temperatures in summer. She pries herself from her cozy bed, washes quickly, and dons her corset, dress, and apron. Pinning her hair up and stuffing it inside her cap, she gives herself a quick, fortifying nod in the small looking glass and heads down the corridor to the kitchens, where Mrs. Crabbe is no doubt already preparing the bread.
"There y'are," Mrs. Crabbe snaps. "About time ye got down 'ere."
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Crabbe," Beryl replies, pulling a bowl toward herself and starting in on the veg for the day.
"Didn't glance at the menu, did'ye? Some changes today. Her Ladyship has a luncheon guest."
Beryl flushes, embarrassed at her misstep, and double-checks the card lying on the counter, squinting slightly at the cook's scratchy scrawl.
"Ah, that'll be Lady Spencer," she murmurs.
Mrs. Crabbe looks at her sharply. "How'd ye know that? Could be anybody!"
Beryl trades her carrots for the spinach and begins rinsing the tender leaves. "Lady Spencer doesn't like carrots, does she? They're never on the menu when she's here, even though they're Lady Vi- I mean, the Dowager's preference." She points to the dessert course. "And she's swapped the almond tart for the strawberry. Lady Spencer has that allergy ..."
Mrs. Crabbe nods slowly and wipes her hands on her apron. "That she does," she says quietly. "Maybe this'll work out after all."
"Sorry?"
But the cook only gazes out the window at the rapidly falling sleet. "Never ye mind, girl. Ye'll know soon enough."
Beryl bites down hard on her tongue, knowing full well from the cook's tone that the conversation is over. She sees a note of sadness on the woman's normally stern face, but it's gone in a flash.
It's only late that afternoon, when Beryl is called into the butler's office, that she begins to suspect something is amiss.
"Mr. Carson?" she asks from the doorway. "You wanted to see me?"
The man looks up from his desk. Beryl isn't sure he ever actually smiles at anyone now that he's no longer a lowly footman, but there appears to be something different about him today. She quickly scans his face - prominent nose, bushy black eyebrows, pursed lips - unsmiling, but ... different; instead of asking, she shakes her head to rid it of the suspicious thoughts.
"Have a seat, Beryl - please," he says, waving her into the chair opposite him. "I've something rather important that I need to discuss with you."
"All right," she says quietly, sitting stock still with her hands clasped in her lap and wondering what she's done recently that has upset Mrs. Crabbe.
He waits, examining her for a moment and noting that she's nervous to be sitting before him. He lowers his voice as much as he can, softens it a bit. "Do you like it here, Beryl?"
"Mr. Carson?" She's confused, her brow furrowed. Do I like it? What kind of a question is that?
"Do you like it here?" he repeats, a bit more slowly.
She takes a moment to formulate her response, and he waits. He's impressed; she's putting real effort into her answer instead of just spitting out what she thinks he wants her to say.
He hopes.
"Overall, yes," she says. She enunciates her words carefully, trying not to swallow them in her nervousness, and her voice is a bit quiet. "It's a good place, Mr. Carson, and I'm grateful to have it. I'm lucky to have it, although I like to think I've learned a great deal and worked up to my potential."
He leans back a little in his chair and tents his fingers over his belly. "Go on."
"I'm not sure what else to say," she admits. "I do enjoy it here, yes, and I hope to be able to stay on if you'll have me."
His eyes open wide, and he realizes why she's nervous. "Oh, Beryl. You didn't think I asked you in here to scold you, did you?"
"Truth be told, I wasn't certain. The only other times I've been called in … well, that was Mr. Greeves, I suppose, and not you."
He sits forward again, laying his hands on his desk. "Just so. Beryl, I asked you in here because you're being offered a promotion … That is, if you'd be interested."
And now it's her turn to be shocked. "A pr- … A promotion?!" Her voice rises as she says the word.
He looks at her oddly, trying not to chuckle. He is the butler now, after all. Butlers do not chuckle.
"Yes," he replies, keeping the smile off of his face. "A promotion."
"But that means that Mrs. Crabbe …?"
"Is leaving," he confirms. "At the end of the month. And she's suggested that instead of posting an advertisement, Lady Grantham hire you to be her replacement."
"But … Are you sure?" She can't even wrap her head around it. Most days, Beryl isn't sure Mrs. Crabbe even likes her! To think she'd have suggested a promotion …
"I am," he replies. "She told me you're confident with what the family likes and does not like, and that you have an extensive knowledge of the traditional dishes whilst also being able to instill a bit of creativity when needed or desired. She also let it slip that you were responsible for the chocolate torte last week?"
Beryl nods. "Yes, Mr. Carson."
"Did you know that the Evanses went home and asked their cook to replicate it? They liked it that much and were very impressed with the 'calibre of the Downton cook,' Mrs. Evans said."
"Well," Beryl says, blushing furiously and staring down at her lap. "That's awfully nice now, innit?"
Something occurs to her, and she has to ask. "Mrs. Crabbe. She doesn't have much family. Is she … She's not ill, is she?"
The butler's eyebrow twitches at the forthright question, and Beryl knows the news isn't good.
She listens intently as he fills her in, his face quite drawn now. He makes it clear that he has Mrs. Crabbe's permission to tell her everything, that the cook didn't have it in her to tell the story one more time, but he asks that Beryl not share those details with the other staff.
As if I would. They're hardly my friends, she thinks.
"A week and a half," Beryl whispers tearfully when he's done talking, and she nods firmly to steady herself. "All right, then."
"So ... you'll accept?" Mr. Carson likes Beryl, and that surprises him. Between her taking over for Mrs. Crabbe and the promising new head housemaid whose references Mrs. Williams left on his desk earlier that morning, he hopes that Downton may be heading in precisely the right direction to ensure the new Earl's success.
Not 'Master Robert' anymore, he thinks, and a faint frown appears on his face. How quickly things change. For all of us.
Beryl sits silently, watching how he stares at a random spot on his desk, thinking. She often wonders about Mr. Carson, about his past and what makes him tick. But then again, it's not really her place to do so.
Until now, perhaps.
She wonders if, once she's cook and on a more level playing field, she just might get to know him a bit better. She's never gotten on well with the maids - she's too opinionated, they tell her, and she knows it's true. But she respects Mr. Carson, and it's clear from their conversation that he regards her well. She thinks her mother would have been trying to fix them up if she knew about him, but the preposterous thought just makes Beryl giggle.
"Everything all right, Beryl?" he asks, and she nods.
"Just fine, Mr. Carson."
He walks her to the door, then lets out a small hmph. "You'll be 'Mrs. Patmore' soon, Beryl. Are you ready?"
She looks up to him and nods firmly. "I think I am, Mr. Carson. I think I am."
Two weeks later …
Dawn seems to come earlier than usual to Argyll today, accompanied by a cold winter drizzle and no small amount of sadness for the small farm family: a mother, downstairs preparing porridge and a small sack of whatever she can pull together for a luncheon for her eldest daughter; a father, already hitching the horse to their small cart; two sisters, reluctant to give up the comfort that the other provides - comfort both from the heat of one another's bodies in the tiny bed and from the proximity of one another's hearts, hearts which lay heavy at the knowledge of what the day will bring.
The older sister, who's been lying awake since before dawn, cannot manage to chase away the remnants of her disturbing dreams.
What if …?
There had been so many 'what if' moments over the past two weeks.
What if the townspeople don't want a foreigner? What if the family isn't as well-regarded as I was told?
What if the money proves not enough? What if my work proves not enough in the house of an actual Lord? What if they let me go?
That cannot happen.
She rolls over, and her younger sister snuggles in closer, sniffling in her sleep.
What if the farm life is the path meant for me? What if Da was wrong about that?
What if I should have accepted Joe?
What if … What if …?
Oh, but then other thoughts begin to arrive, thoughts not quite as loud in her mind but much more inspiring, for next to the disturbing dreams and fear are small, faint flickers of hope.
What if it's everything I've dreamed of?
What if it's even more?
What if I can truly advance? What if there's an opportunity for reading, for education, or to learn a new skill? What if they're kind, gentle, caring?
What if I can secure our future for good?
Her sister wakes, and she tucks those thoughts deep down once again. She owes her family - and herself - time to say goodbye.
There'll be hours enough on the train to dream of what might be.
oOoOoOoOo
When they arrived at the station, the platform was teeming with people; as soon as Elsie said goodbye to her Da, he was swallowed by the crowd.
And the train, she discovers as soon as she climbs aboard, is worse. She's grateful they left early enough for her to secure a seat and not have to stand the entire way to Yorkshire.
There'll be no real sleeping on the train, she realizes, and so she does the next best thing. Tucking herself into a seat by the window, her basket between her feet and her trunk stowed securely in the cargo area, Elsie takes a book from her handbag and begins to read.
It's difficult for her to focus at first, but eventually the din in the carriage turns into background noise, and eventually the poet's voice is the only one she can hear in her head. She tries to imagine it in an English accent but finds she cannot, and it reminds her she'll need to curb her own accent if she's to succeed. The very thought bristles her, but it won't do to be throwing it in their faces that she's Scottish. It'll be hard enough at first to be accepted, and she hopes hard work will make up for it.
It didn't in the last place, though.
Her accent aside, Elsie knows her sharp mind and sharper tongue aren't always assets, either. But she thinks she can make a go of it at Downton. After all, the housekeeper's letter was kind, and Elsie has been promised the head housemaid job should today's brief interview go as planned. It was clear in the letter that she simply needs to demonstrate a basic knowledge of bookkeeping and some skill at sewing - both things in which she excels. It appeared to her when she read between the housekeeper's lines that they didn't have a great deal of prospects, not if they were taking in a girl from all the way from Scotland, and she's grateful.
It also appeared, from the fact that they want to see her maths skills, that Mrs. Williams may wish to elevate her to the position of housekeeper one day if all goes well - and that was the final push that got Elsie on the train that morning.
At each stop along the way to her final destination, people seem to be getting off but not on. When the carriage is nearly empty, Elsie stretches out her legs and places the basket on the seat beside her, and she manages to doze off the rest of the way.
It's the whistle that wakes her, and she smooths her skirt and gathers her things. Locating her trunk and thanking the porter, she makes her way through the sparse crowd on the platform in Ripon. Everyone is speaking quickly and not in a very animated way, and the combination already makes her uncomfortable and out of place.
These are all strangers, she realizes with a jolt. They likely don't even know each other.
And you're not even in London.
The difference to Argyll is so drastic that her heart skips a beat. But then she spots the driver holding a placard on which he's written her name, and she approaches him. He tips his hat to her and greets her, and he smiles when she speaks.
"Ah, you really are Scottish, then?" he asks kindly.
"As Scottish as they come, I'm afraid," she replies.
The horse whinnies, and she turns to pet him.
"What's his name?" she asks.
"That one's Edward," the driver says. "He's an old favourite. Do you like horses, Miss Elsie?"
Her nod is vigorous, and she's smiling. "We've always had them on the farm," she says. "But Edward seems special."
The driver shrugs. "No more than the others," he says.
"How many others are there?"
"At Downton? Oh, I think about twenty," he replies nonchalantly, and she hides her shock. She's never seen a place where they can afford so many horses in the stable, and certainly not all of the things needed to keep them in the excellent health and appearance that Edward exhibits.
"I see."
They get into the carriage after the driver secures Elsie's trunk, and he clicks the reins so that they can head up to the estate.
"Got a big family on the farm?" He's making conversation, and Elsie doesn't really mind except that family isn't the topic she'd prefers to discuss.
"No, not really."
"No siblings?" he presses, curious.
Elsie bites down on her lips, pensive. "Only one," she says carefully. "A sister. But we aren't close."
"So you'll not be missing her, then. I suppose that's good."
"Yes."
Her heart shatters at the lie, but she knows it is necessary. Becky is dear and sweet and kind, but she's not very easy to explain to others.
The less they know, the better, she thinks.
They exchange a few more pleasantries, but then the rest of the ride is silent … That is, until Elsie spies the castle.
"Oh, good heavens," she gasps, and the man beside her chuckles.
"Welcome to Downton Abbey. What do you think?"
Elsie examines the huge stone edifice, the expansive grounds, and does a quick tally of windows in her mind.
"I think I know why they needed a new head housemaid," she replies without thinking. She blushes when she realizes what she's uttered, but the driver just laughs.
"You just wait, Elsie. You think it looks big now, but you've not even really seen it yet. I've never seen it all, certainly not the inside, and I've been working here seven years."
She swallows hard, excitement fluttering in her belly.
oOoOoOoOo
Elsie's knock is loud on the door, and it's Mrs. Patmore who ends up answering it.
"Oh, my," the new cook comments upon seeing her appearance. "You look like you're in need of a hot cuppa and a long sleep. Elsie, I presume?"
Elsie's eyes grow wide with astonishment at the woman's frank assessment. "Elsie Hughes," she confirms. "I'm to be the new head housemaid."
"Odd ... Mr. Carson didn't mention you were Scottish," Mrs. Patmore mutters, moving aside so that Elsie can get off the doorstep. She closes the door tightly behind them and bustles off to arrange the tea. Elsie, unsure for a moment where she's supposed to go, follows slowly down the corridor.
She gasps when she enters the servants' dining hall. It's so big compared to the one at her previous placement! Of course, Downton isn't even in the same universe as that modest estate … but still.
"Here we are. A hot pot of tea and a few biscuits just out of the oven. Mind those; they're still hot. I'm Mrs. Patmore, the cook," she says, holding her hand out awkwardly. Elsie grasps it firmly and nods.
"A pleasure."
Mrs. Patmore pours the tea and pushes a cup to Elsie, who takes it and adds her own milk.
"Mrs. Williams's is the first office by the door, but she's up in a meeting with her Ladyship at the moment - about you, no doubt," the cook says.
"And Mr. Carson … You mentioned him. He's the butler, I presume?"
"He is."
Elsie sips her tea. She desperately wants to ask more questions, but she's afraid to make the wrong impression. She's not here because of the butler, after all.
Mrs. Patmore looks up at her, noting the pretty blue eyes, slim figure, and long dark hair currently secured in a neat bun. She remembers once again her first days at Downton - how she was intimidated by the sheer size of the place … and how curious she was about the personalities she'd encounter. "He's kind," she says quietly. "He's stern, but not one to …" She sighs. "He won't take advantage, don't you worry. And he doesn't tolerate that sort of business from the men, either."
Elsie nods thoughtfully. Well, that's one concern gone.
"Mrs. Williams is the one to worry about," Mrs. Patmore confides. "Strict, she is. But I think you'll do." She points to the general area of Elsie's cup. "Your hands have seen hard work. She'll like that. She'd not even have hired you if she'd not been sure."
Footsteps can be heard coming from the stairwell, and Mrs. Patmore stands and drains her teacup. "That'll be Mrs. Williams now." Then, when the footsteps multiplied, she added, "And it looks as though you'll get to meet Mr. Carson as well. I'll be off. Nice to meet you, Elsie. Welcome to Downton."
Elsie watches as she bustles off, then manages to stand as the two senior staff enter the room. Mrs. Williams approaches her and offers her hand and a small smile, which Elsie returns in kind.
"I see Mrs. Patmore got you some tea. I hope you've had time to finish it."
"I have, thank you," Elsie replies, and she can't help but notice the somewhat overbearing presence of the butler. "Mr. Carson, I presume?"
His eyebrows shoot up, but he nods in acknowledgement. Elsie, however, doesn't miss the surprised look in his eyes … and a bit of wariness, which she misunderstands.
"I spoke out of turn," she adds quickly. "I apologize."
But he only smiles. It's a very, very small turn of the corner of his mouth, but Elsie sees it and it makes her feel a bit better.
"It's your accent," he blurts out, and then a faint blush joins his smile. "It was … surprising."
"But … you knew I was Scottish, didn't you? Mrs. Patmore said ..." She's confused by his discomfort, but a glance from the housekeeper makes the rest of her statement fizzle out in her throat.
"Let's head to my office and finish up a bit of paperwork, Elsie, before I show you around. It's a big house, and I daresay you'll need some time to get used to it. I presume you've brought some samples of your needlework?" she says, nodding to the basket. "I know it's not typical for a housemaid, but sometimes a lady's maid takes ill and we all have to pitch in now and again."
"Yes, Mrs. Williams." She turns back to the butler. "It was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Carson."
"Likewise," he says with a nod.
Mrs. Patmore absentmindedly wipes the kitchen counter as she watches the three of them disappear into their respective offices.
Yes, she thinks with a smile, I'm sure it was a pleasure, indeed. If the looks on your faces were anything at all.
But then her smile turns to a frown. It won't do for the new housemaid to be too familiar with the butler, and it definitely won't do if Mr. Carson looks at her like that at dinner.
She knows he won't, though. Mr. Carson doesn't abide staff relations whatsoever, and neither does Mrs. Williams.
She wonders if a word to Elsie would be appropriate, but decides to wait.
It's not as though we're friends, she reminds herself.
But … perhaps someday ...
Perhaps someday, friends. Until then ... would love to know what you thought. xx