May 1920

The knock on the door was expected. Mrs. Hughes had heard his footsteps echoing down the hall to her sitting room. When she turned in her chair she stifled a sigh.

"What can I do for you, Mr. Carson?" She asked.

He pursed his lips and entered her room just enough to shut the door behind him.

Was this it? She wondered. Was he finally going to confront her on her health? (Cancer she shuddered). Ever since the afternoon, with her angry outburst and his flailing "I don't know about any illness", she assumed he might eventually pluck up some courage and ask her about it.

He cleared his throat, "I was wondering if you had a moment?"

"Go on then."

Looking at his toes and squaring his shoulders - the surest of signs of Carson-Finding-His-Bravery - she pursed her lips in defiance. Ready to say it was no business of his, ready to argue, ready to fight should it come to that. Really, she could do with a good fight. A real fight, not just the frustrated and melancholy ones she was having in her own head.

And a fight with him. That would make things so much easier. If she could push him away now then maybe when the news came (fourteen hours and counting) it wouldn't be so impossible to tell him.

He started, "I wanted to talk to you about the theater."

She couldn't help it as her mouth opened in shock. "The theater?"

"Yes," he said, looking everywhere but her, "the theater."

"I see." Not actually seeing at all, "What about the theater?"

"I was a part of it once. The theater. I sang and I danced, 'on the halls' as it were." he said, "I even juggled and told jokes."

"You're putting me on."

He finally looked at her, his face cracking a slight smile, "It's the perfect truth. I spent six years of my life performing on the stage."

She waved her hand to have him sit down, but he shook his head; which piqued her curiosity.

She argued, "But I thought you'd worked at Downton since you were a boy."

"If I'm honest Mrs. Hughes, I have always felt younger than I am."

She stared at him. That wasn't quite what she had asked. But then, perhaps there were only so many bombs one man could drop at a time. He had performed on the stage - Mr. Carson! Her eyes squinted together in an attempt to visualize a young Carson singing and dancing and juggling.

"Why did you leave?" She asked.

"I hated every moment of it."

That was certainly a good reason. Though his comment from not long ago about style and show now had a more pronounced quality to it. She regarded him. Somehow, after twenty one years of friendship, Mr. Carson held depths she had not imagined.

But, what she really wanted to know was why on Earth he was telling her this. Why he deemed it important that she should know this now, when it had clearly never mattered before. A niggling feeling in the back of her mind said it had something to do with her cancer - her possible cancer.

She waited. Years of experience told her that any amount of silence on her part could open up vast explanations from him.

As expected, he continued, "I haven't sung in years. Except for Christmas of course. And I can't say I've juggled in recent memory, but I surprise myself every now and then remembering a joke here and there."

"I must say, it's hard to imagine, Mr. Carson." She offered him a smile, hoping he would keep on.

"You see," he took a small step forward, "I could try again - juggling - or tell one of my jokes or sing - if you're ever feeling upse- if you're ever feeling down in the mouth."

He looked to his shoes and plucked a nonexistent piece of lint from his waistcoat.

She felt a lump form in her throat. Pursing her lips, she blinked rapidly, bowing her head, keeping her tears at bay. He would not see her cry. To her knowledge, he had never seen her cry. She meant to keep it that way. But Good God that man could sometimes have a kindness to him that she often wished she could bottle up and give to the rest of the world.

She sighed. When she looked up he was gone, the door to her sitting room open making her wonder if she hadn't just dreamed the entire interaction.

But then he was back, carrying five small lemons. He closed the door behind him. Staring furiously at his hands, he focused on the small fruits. Mrs. Hughes' eyes went wide not daring to believe what she was about to witness.

And then he began to juggle.

It lasted a full minute without a single slip and she applauded at the end. He surprised her again when he took a little bow.

"Mr. Carson. That was wonderful, thank you very much." She said. Hard as it was to keep her tears to herself, she found a peace floating over her. A feeling she didn't often have embraced her, shocking her for a moment before it settled fully around her: this is what it felt like to be cared for.

He opened his mouth to speak when a clang from the kitchen startled them both. They heard Mrs. Patmore screaming at the kitchen maids. Something about lemons. Mrs. Hughes watched Mr. Carson's ears turn red as he fumbled with the produce in his hands.

Standing, she strode to him, collecting the fruit, "Perhaps I should explain."

"You won't tell her -"

"No, no, I'll say something about tea and being forgetful. Your secret's safe with me."

He nodded. If she hadn't known him so well, the swift arm motion he made just then might have made her think he wanted to touch her, grasp her arm. But Mr. Carson never laid a hand on her, in comfort or otherwise. Instead he opened the door and stood from her, sadness clear in his eyes.

"Thank you again," she said brushing past him as she walked out the door.

Later that night she cried in her room, praying the next time he juggled for her (or danced for her, or sang for her) it would be for a happy occasion, and not the sorrowful one they were both expecting.

THE END