Now that exams are over, I seem to pumping these out like nobody's business. This is the result of an experiment in trying to understand Mrs Hughes. Like Carson, I don't understand her. Also, I know that the title is an anachronism; it's my attempt at being poetic. (Deal with it.)

I'm going to leave who she's talking to (and if she's even talking to anybody) totally ambiguous. Clearly I think something, but it'll be interesting to see what other people get from it.

A River in Egypt

Some of the young ones see the Housekeeper as being incapable of love. Married to the job, but not to any man. A spinster who spurns every man who tries to love her.

I am perfectly capable of love. I love my work, I care deeply for those I work with. Downton wouldn't run very effectively without a loving and caring touch. The Housekeeper's love is different than the love of the Butler. His love must be for presentation and style. Her love should be for organization and keeping the gears well oiled. A well run household would never happen without love.

And what of love of the Butler?

There is a connection that forms with anybody one sees everyday over a period of many many years. Lives become intertwined over work, and the connections are tightened over many late night conversations and glasses of sherry, and eventually those connections turn into love.

There are many different types of love: that of a mother, that of lovers, that between Butler and Housekeeper.

It most definitely is not the kind of love that develops at first sight. It would have been a dreadful few years if it had been, living like we do. It would have been positively unrequited.

Never unrequited.

Essentially unrequited. For all intents and purposes, it would have been unrequited.

It would have been enough.

Not for very long.

Perhaps not. But has it ever been enough? Is it enough now?

For now, for the most part, it is enough; it has always been enough. I have a job I love, status, people I care about. I've very comfortable with my life. However, there is a fraction of my heart – a very tiny fraction, mind you – that feels that it never has been enough and yearns for more.

Is that a problem?

I'm perfectly content in going along as we have. We have always known that we care for each other deeply. For God's sake, we crossed into love territory together ages ago.

And still nothing has changed.

There has never been a need for change. We are not characters in a Jane Austen novel – life does not work like that. Love does not make one particularly romantic or poetic or confessional. It's perfectly fine because I am not particularly romantic or poetic or confessional in nature. Oh, how those fictional lovers love their love confessions.

Is this a love confession?

I love. I have always loved. There is nothing about it that requires confessing.

We should have had this talk weeks, months, perhaps even years ago.

Fat lot of good that would have done if we'd have done anything years ago. If we had acted, or even simply talked about it, it would have been disastrous. We were young and foolish and we would have let propriety, or the lack of it, be the ruin of us.

What's changed?

Me, I suppose.

How so?

I'm older and perhaps even wiser and I don't want to ruin us.

They say that denial is a river in Egypt.

This isn't denial.

Oh, Mrs Hughes, you may be old now, but you still are not very wise.

Thoughts?