A/N: I LOVE this anon prompt and whilst writing this, I could think of so many ways to execute it, I almost wanted to do another Choose Your Own Adventure fic! I do hope you'll enjoy what I've come up with and don't hesitate to let me know what you think.
This one is dedicated to Mel.
"Mrs. Hughes?" He found her standing in the darkness, staring out as the rain lashed against the library windows. He worried, she had been winding herself tighter and tighter over the past week or so, ever since that first visit from Sergeant Willis.
Stepping up behind her, careful to keep his voice low and calm, "I'm on your side…" His hand hovered near her shoulder, almost afraid to touch her for fear she would shatter into a thousand pieces at his feet.
"Are you, Mr Carson?" she asked dejectedly.
"Of course I am," he replied, a little taken aback by the way she spoke.
She nodded slowly, but didn't turn to face him.
He observed her reflection in the window; his friend. His dearest friend. There were circles under her eyes and her bottom lip sported the evidence of having been worried to excess. Her dark hair - shiny, glossy, well-cared for - was shot through with gray.
He wondered when that had happened.
The silence stretched and he started to desperately think of something to say when her voice drifted through the room quietly.
"I'm tired."
She swallowed a few times before continuing:
"I thought going into service would bring me a different life. That I'd not have to deal with the pain my mother had to endure. Worry, trouble, fights, secrets."
She sighed.
"What do you mean?" He asked, not understanding - like he often didn't understand her. More and more these days.
He could see her sad smile in the glass.
"It doesn't matter."
Silence again. His hand, that he'd let fall by his side, raised again, almost of its own accord and landed lightly on her shoulder.
She didn't move, didn't tell him to not touch her. Instead she put her hand on his, her arm covering her chest.
"We're on a rough sea, Mr Carson," she said. He hummed his assent.
"But our ship is strong, Mrs Hughes. And we're experienced in braving storms," he tried to reassure her.
"Perhaps."
She squeezed his hand gently and let go. He rubbed his thumb gently over the tense muscles once, twice.
"It's getting late," she said, "his Lordship will want to use the library after the family has finished their coffee."
"You are right," he agreed easily. "I must get on."
He made to leave the room, but turned one last time to look at her.
She had her arms wrapped tightly around herself and she was rocking back and forth. He heard the telltale sounds of someone holding back their tears.
He opened the door and went through it, giving his dearest friend the peace and privacy she seemed to need.
"Mr Carson?" She said as he stood on the threshold. He stopped, stepped back, walked back to her.
Her voice trembled. She finally turned around to face him.
"Please do not think any less of me," she implored, her bottom lip quivering.
"Never," he said with great conviction.
"You will."
A tear trickled down her cheek. He wanted to wipe it away, but felt he couldn't. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pristine handkerchief and gave it to her. "It's clean," he said.
"I know."
"I could never think any less of you, Mrs Hughes," he then said solemnly.
"I know you are already very disappointed in me. And that you don't like it when we are at odds and it feels like these days we are more at odds than agreeing."
"It's different with you," he admitted. "We can be at odds and I will never like it, but it's not…" he searched for the words.
"Life is altering us, Mr Carson. There's nothing that is steady now."
"No. But I know I can always hold your hand," the words slipped out easily and brought a tiny smile to her face and lit up her eyes. "And I am always on your side."
"We'll see." She didn't look him in the eye and it worried him.
He thought of what to do, how to help and he couldn't think of anything. He couldn't think of the last time this strong, capable woman had needed his help. Oh, she had often pushed him a little, asked him things he didn't want to give and he had often found himself inexplicably doing her bidding. Except now, with the memorial. But he doubted that was what made her so…
depressed.
"Are you alright, Mrs Hughes?" he asked, his voice low.
She looked up at him, her head cocked slightly to the side.
"You know you are the first one to ask me that in a long time?"
"And when was the last time you answered truthfully?"
She looked at the floor, her posture slightly sagging. "I don't remember."
More tears fell. "I'm so tired," she said again and she swayed slightly. He took a step forward and caught her. Her hands grasped the fabric of his coat. For a brief moment he stood rather awkwardly, until he put his arms around her.
She wasn't crying, which he had expected.
"I remember when you said you didn't want me to get tired," her words are muffled by his waistcoat and shirt. "I thought that was such a strange thing to say, seeing we are always tired. But now I don't know. It's all just…"
He just held her as she rambled.
"There are too many people, too many secrets. I have to tell too many lies. There are too many of you to properly look after. I have it worse than my mother - she only had my dad and me and my sister."
"Who do you need to 'look after'? We're all adults here, we can look after ourselves," he disagreed, but not too vehemently.
"Oh dear god, I'll do you an injury," she responded, but the sting those words would normally hold was missing. "What about Daisy and Mrs Patmore and Anna and Mr Bates and Lady Edith and Mr Branson…" she summed up, names falling from her lips like a waterfall. "And you."
"Me?" He was surprised.
"Perhaps you most of all," she didn't explain, but she did smile. A genuine smile.
He was ready to sputter something, but then he thought about all those late evenings she sat waiting for him with a cup of tea, all those times she pushed him in the right direction, helped him see the other side of things. How she cared for him when he was ill. How she gave him quiet and peace when things became too much too much.
"I don't mind," she said and worried her lip.
"But you need some help," he added. "I'll try to be nicer to Daisy about this whole… education-thing," he offered.
"That'll be a nice start." She didn't thank him. She didn't need to. Not with words. He still held her in his arms, though not as tightly as before.
"I'll speak to Mr Bates."
"What about?"
"I know you think I may not be the quickest mind in the house, but I can put two-and-two together."
Instead of answering, she put her forehead against his shoulder again.
They stood like that for a long time. The sound of the clock ticking and her even breathing were the only sounds he heard until the door swung open and Lord Grantham entered the library, a glass of port in hand.
She slowly stepped away from him, touched her hair. He turned to his employer.
"Carson, I'll say goodnight. Do not wait up for us."
"Very well, Milord."
He ushered Mrs Hughes towards the door, when Lord Grantham addressed her: "Mrs Hughes, Lady Edith asked for you, if you've a moment tomorrow?"
"Of course, Milord," she said and she looked at him. She shrugged, as to say: 'See what I mean?'
He watched her leave the library and go through the green baize door. He knew she would ask the kitchen staff to make him a cup of tea. He knew she would seek out Anna for a quick word, that she would ask Daisy about today's lesson. She would tell Mrs Patmore than nothing was resolved about her nephew's name on the memorial (he wished he'd never been made part of the whole blasted thing, that damned committee). She would sent the Bateses home and tidy her parlour, clean the ink from her hands.
He knew her routine as she knew his.
She knew him like nobody else did, but he didn't know her half as well.
He doubted anyone did.