The Biggest Secret Of All
Charles gently pushed the door open and peered cautiously into the room. He wasn't entirely sure how warm a welcome he would receive, and as much as it dismayed him he was also all too aware that it was his own fault. It had been a difficult few weeks. Firstly, there had been the wedding; It had to be perfect and befitting of a future countess but they didn't have the staff, and the guest list kept changing and then Mrs Hughes and Anna were delayed in London. Then there was the party and the oven broke down and neither of the gentlemen of the house had the appropriate attire. It was all going terribly wrong and she wasn't there, and somehow he had managed to blame her.
"Mr Carson, did you need something?" she asked wearily, glancing up from the ledger she had been examining for the past half an hour. Her eyes fell on the tray. "Left over wine?"
"One of the perks of being a Butler. I was wondering if you would like a glass, Mrs Hughes," he said, hoping she wouldn't send him away with a flea in his ear.
She considered refusing, knowing that she shouldn't indulge, was likely to suffer later when the alcohol reacted with her medicine, but she found herself inviting him in. "I'd like that, very much." Rising to her feet she crossed to sit at the small table. It had a been a while since they had just sat and talked at the end of the day but it had been as much due to avoidance as to how busy they were. The longer these things went on the harder it was to start again, to rebuild the friendship that seemed to have become fragmented.
Charles placed the tray on the table and took the chair opposite her. "Good. It's been a while since we talked."
The relief that she had briefly felt that he had made the first move was instantly replaced with a feeling of dread that settled in the pit of her stomach. Every conversation they'd had of late seemed to end in her practically shouting at him or his complaining about something she had done wrong. It was less than harmonious and made it much easier to slip quietly off to bed, claiming exhaustion. Alone in her sitting room, there was every possibility that he would ask what was wrong with her, or that she would break down in tears, either would irretrievably damage their working relationship permanently. "Was there something in particular?" She asked nervously.
"No, I don't even mind if we don't talk. Sitting here quietly may be just the tonic I need at the end of a long day." He filled her glass with the deep red claret before filling his own. In truth he missed spending the last hour of his day sitting with her, mulling over the day and winding down. He even missed the minor arguments that they provoked in each other, knowing that years of friendship meant tomorrow everything would be alright again. Things had changed and for a while he hadn't been able to figure out why, then a chance conversation and everything made sense.
"For me too." She gave him a small smile that failed to reach her eyes, but brought a smile to his own lips.
Charles settled back in his seat and lifted his glass to his lips, using the distraction and silence to study her. He would never say it to her face, and he chided himself for not noticing sooner, but she looked tired. Not the 'its been a long week and Mrs Patmore is driving me crazy' kind of tired, but 'the world is coming to an end and I want to sleep for eternity' kind. Dark circles had formed under her eyes and her skin had taken on a grey hue. Although they probably weren't all that noticeable to anyone else, he had spent fifteen years looking at her face, fifteen years of noting each line and blemish. His observations and his newly garnered knowledge combined to turn his concern for her well being into the stark reality that she may be dying.
"Is something wrong?" She asked quietly, ducking her head to look at him, oblivious to that fact her own expression was now mirroring his. "Mr Carson?"
He shook his head, trying to dispel the sadness that threatened to engulf him. "No, should there be?"
Her smile widened. "You were furrowing your brow, quite intensely actually. It normally indicates your unhappy with the table dressing, or with damage to the silver, or with something I've done," she added hesitantly, instinctively nibbling on her bottom lip as she waited for his reaction.
His eyes shot up to meet hers and the furrow in his brow deepened. "Have I really been that awful to be around? Have I demoralised that you that much?" he asked, his voice laced with concern, his hand momentarily reaching out for her before dropping onto the table. The mere thought that he had added to his troubles sent a surge of guilt through him.
"There have been days when I seem unable to do anything right by you," she admitted candidly. Mostly they were days when she could barely stand, when her body was beyond exhaustion and she had prioritised what she thought was important. There were also days when she had slipped away quietly to see the doctor only to find that the staff could not live up to his exacting standards without her standing over them. Those were the days she wanted to curl up on her bed and cry.
"Please forgive me, ignore me even, I am a cantankerous old man who should know better." As he sat across from her, watching her force herself to stay awake, he wished he could take back every derogatory comment he had thrown at her recently.
"You only want everything to be as it should." She took a lengthy sip of her drink, savouring the taste as it slid down her throat. It was a small pleasure in a week when there had been none, and she was learning to enjoy the good things because thinking about the bad caused her to pity herself and that wasn't who she wanted to be. Besides she had too much to do to wallow.
"You do a wonderful job, Mrs Hughes. The staff respect you and when it counts you pull off nothing short of a miracle. Especially now when we are a footman and a maid down. Sometimes my expectations are possibly too high." He instantly regretted his glowing affirmation but not the sentiment behind it. They were, and had been for nearly fifteen years a good team.
Elsie arched an eyebrow, surprised by the turn the conversation had taken. For a brief moment she wondered if he knew, if he pitied her but she banished the thought, safe in the knowledge that the doctor, who was bound by confidentiality, and Mrs Patmore were the only people who knew. Neither would disrespect her in sharing her private secrets although neither could know how highly she regarded his opinion of her, or why she needed him to be able to treat her normally if she was to deal with the weeks to come.
There were so many things he wanted to say to her, to declare, but all he could offer her with platitudes. It seemed incredibly small under the circumstances, pathetic even. For fifteen years he had slowly been falling in love with her, although possibly he had only realised in the past few months. His feelings were carefully hidden behind a self constructed wall, never to come crashing down, never to fall and make her ill at ease. A little honesty was maybe enough. "I don't know how we would manage without you," he said sincerely. I don't want to manage without you, he added in his head. The thought caused his mouth to go dry and he raised the glass to his lips. How he wished that it was him that was sick rather than her. In a heartbeat he would swap places with her, enduring the pain and loss of dignity, in a heartbeat if she asked he would be by her side, holding her hand. None of which he could, or would ever say to her, because that was not who they were and she would not want him there.
"I wasn't planning on going anywhere," she declared. "Unless you're trying to tell me something." A troubling thought crossed her mind. What if the family had found out and didn't want a sick old woman wandering their hallways. Without an income she could not afford the medical bills, without her job and Downton she had nothing.
"It was just a statement, Mrs Hughes. I spend so much time telling everyone what they do wrong I often fail to praise them when they do something right." Coming to her room had been a mistake he suddenly realised. His feelings were still too raw and he was in danger of saying too much. Why the doctor thought he knew was beyond him, or at least that was what he told himself. They were friends, maybe even the closest of friends, and while everyone assumed they were more he knew she could never view him as more than the cranky Butler. As they lapsed into silence, her too shocked by his statement to comment, him too wrapped up in his own thoughts to notice, he wondered if she would ever tell him or whether he would spend the rest of his life in feigned ignorance. Their lives, he corrected, because he wasn't willing to accept that she would die. Whatever difficulties his Lordship was enduring, he would, Charles was sure, send her to London, and make sure she had the best treatment. He, of course would, never tell her of the blind panic that had set in when he had walked away from the doctor, or the tears that he had freely wept for her.
"Are you feeling alright?" Elsie asked, scrutinising him carefully, and seeing a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. In the past she had wished he would share some of his load but as the reality of her situation sank in she had come to terms with the fact that to battle through whatever was to come she needed to take better care of herself; a double dose of stress was not going to help.
He shook himself out of the reverie. "I am quite alright. Maybe a little tired, but then tell me which of us isn't?"
"Then go to bed, get an early night for once," she instructed, her Scottish brogue making her sound more frustrated than she meant.
Charles rolled his eyes. "And now you're mothering me."
"I have no one else to mother," she said, unable to conceal the sadness in her voice. "And if anyone needs to be watched over it's you." The illness was making her wistful which was pointless because she couldn't go back and change anything. Not that she wanted to. Downton had brought her everything she had wanted and pitying herself because she was sick and didn't have a family to care for her was a waste of the energy she had.
He gave her a rare grin. "I wouldn't have it any other way, Mrs Hughes." She turned away, tears threatening to fall. Charles Carson was a dinosaur, a relic intrenched in the ways of old. He hated change, would never understand why his family should adapt to the new world, and quite frankly made her life ten times more difficult than it had to be on any given day. But he was kind and had been a good friend for many years and now she needed that companionship more than ever, but it had to be on her terms. His words were making her sentimental but if she told him now she would sob in his arms and he would no longer treat her the same.
"I'm sorry, I'm keeping you up." He emptied his glass in one mouthful, reluctant to leave but only too aware that she would need rest in order to cope with the months ahead.
"I'd like another glass, if I may," she said quietly, all too aware of the effect the wine was having on her system. "It might help me sleep." In truth, despite the turn of conversation she didn't want him to go. The doctor had recommended a treatment plan but there were no guarantees that it would work, and even if it did, it would be a long time before they could sit and share a drink at the end of a long day.
Leaning in he emptied the decanter between their two glasses. "I won't tell, if you won't."
She laughed, shaking her head. "How many times have we said that? How many secrets have we shared?"
"Far too many," he agreed. "And we will probably share many more in the years to come."
Elsie tore her eyes away, staring at her fingers gently toying with the glass.
He inwardly cursed as he realised where her thoughts had gone. Taking a deep breath he added, "of course if we don't drink up and go to bed, everyone is going to know the biggest secret of all."
She held her breath for a second, patiently waiting for him to continue, maybe secretly hoping that he would announce that he knew, that she could fall apart in his arms, backtracking on everything she had decided. "And what's that, Mr Carson?"
With a twinkle in his eye he leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, "That this miserable old fool spends his nights trying to get the housekeeper drunk."
"Really? I'm not sure which part of the sentence is more disturbing. That you think you can get me drunk on two glasses of wine or why you might want to get me drunk," she laughed, finally at ease with the banter.
"Ah, now you see. That may be the biggest secret of all," he smirked, rising to his feet. "But definitely a secret for another time."
"And another decanter of wine," She mused, downing the last of her wine and following him into the hallway.
"Most definitely, Mrs Hughes." It wasn't much, and it wouldn't be enough when times got tough but if he could make her laugh like that, and offer her a glimmer of the future, then he would gladly bring her a decanter every night.