This is written in response to the latest Chelsie-anon prompt. It is first fanfiction effort. Disclaimer: I do not own them; I wish that I did.
Elsie watches out the backdoor as the last of the hall boys trots up the drive towards the village. She's been sending her "chicks" home for Mothering Sunday for twenty years, she should be used to it by now. That feeling of emptiness, empty house, empty table, empty heart. Nothing to be done about it at this stage of life. Taking a deep breath & pulling her shawl tighter against the cold March wind blowing through the courtyard, she turns & closes the door firmly behind her. What happens next?
She latches the door and turns to survey the servants' hall. It is quiet. Too quiet. Once, she had told Joe Burns that she barely had a moment to herself at Downton, but now, today, she will be alone. With all her "children" ushered off and none of her own coming to see her. She stops in the kitchen to speak to Mrs. Patmore; they discuss the arrangements for luncheon and share a few bits of idle chatter. She asks if Beryl has seen Mr. Carson. She hasn't. Elsie's brows furrow just a bit. He had been absent during the efforts to make sure everyone had everything they needed and departed on time. Where was he? Elsie wondered
She leaves Mrs. Patmore to her duties and makes her way to her sitting room. Passing by Mr. Carson's pantry, she glances inside. He sits at his desk quietly, methodically going over the wine ledger. Ordinarily she would seek out his company, but not today. She needs to be left alone to brood over her thoughts a while. She needs to work out her own emotions. She knows that she will have time with him in the evening over a glass of sherry or wine or tea.
She opens the door to her sitting room and her breath is taken. She puts a hand up to her mouth in wonder as she surveys her shelves, her small tables, and her desk. She walks to the fireplace and runs a finger delicately over the edges of several picture frames that are placed there. Some of the pictures are old, some are new. Some are of groups of people while others are of individuals. Some are dressed in uniforms: housemaids, footmen, valets, hall boys, scullery maids. One is dressed in a military uniform – William. She stops at his picture. She picks it up and admires it. What a sweet boy he was, she thinks. She moves about the room. There are pictures everywhere. There are pictures of Anna and Gwen, those she was closest to. There is even a picture of Ethel and little Charlie. She smiles. And pictures of those whose acquaintance she held only a brief time.
Who had done this? Who had taken the time to find these photographs and so thoughtfully arrange them in her sitting room? And on this day?
She notices her desk. There is a vase of wildflowers and note leaned against it. She sits in her chair and takes the note in her hands. She recognizes the handwriting. She would recognize his sure and steady hand anywhere. She slips her paperknife across the seal of the envelope and then pulls the letter free. Tears begin to well in her eyes as she reads:
My dearest Mrs. Hughes,
You once asked me if I had every thought about going another way. About marrying, having a wife and children. You admitted that you had thought about a different life, but we have devoted ourselves to service. Over the years, we have created our own family here at Downton. I know the "chicks" as you call them see you as a mother and I would like to think that they see me as a father in some way. We have had many leave the nest over the years but I know that your influence on them has been substantial. I know that this day is difficult for you with every passing year. You send the "chicks" off and the house is quiet. Too quiet. Mrs. Hughes, you are as much as mother to some of these youngsters as their own parents. I am sorry that I could not help you see them off. I also apologize for being in your sitting room outside your presence. But on this Mothering Day, I wanted you to be able to look around and see all of "our" children and remember them fondly.
Devotedly,
C. Carson
P.S. I have had a long time to think about your question from those years ago. I would only want to go another way with one person, if she will have me.
Tears streamed down Elsie's cheeks as she finished the note. He had done this for her. He saw them as a family, not just the Crawleys as his family, but her and him and the "chicks." She tingles with emotion and makes her way to his pantry. He is pretending to be immersed in the wine ledgers. She opens his door further and steps up to his desk. The note is still in her hand, and the note is pressed to her heart.
"Thank you," she says quietly. He smiles with a lopsided grin. The one that makes her heart melt. She holds her hand out to him and he takes it as he rises from behind his desk.
"You liked the pictures?" he shyly asks. She doesn't answer but nods. He moves closer to her. "I wanted you to know that I appreciate you. And you are a mother in all the ways that count, Elsie. You should not be sad today. You've been an excellent mother to "our chicks." He wipes a tear from her cheek and draws her close to him. She can feel his breath on her and his lips close to hers. He kisses her gently. "And the letter, I take it that you read it."
"Yes," she says so very quietly.
"I meant every word. Will you have me?" he asks pulling her closer.
A broad smiles passes over her face as she answers him. Mothering day would never again be a sad day for Elsie Hughes. It was the beginning of a new life and the culmination of "their family."