A/N: I have written this fic to celebrate my fifteen thousandth post on tumblr (kouw dot tumblr dot com).
Milestones are the best reasons to write, really, aren't they?
A big THANK YOU! to my beta deeedeee (also on FFN and on tumblr) - this fic would have been unreadable without her help. Maybe you could follow her on all the places as a thank you?
Every day she sets aside half an hour to gather her thoughts and write them down. The sentences don't flow, but every word is weighed before being put on the page. There are days the page has more empty lines and blotted out parts; other days it all comes easy.
She had started her routine over a year ago. A week after Dame Nellie Melba had graced the house with her presence and had sung most beautifully. She had sat and listened in wonder, not used to such music.
Her hand tightens around her pen. She cannot hear an aria without feeling overwhelmed with guilt - that she had been enchanted and charmed whilst downstairs an act of the grossest atrocity had occurred. She sighs and reads over what she has written today.
… not like you. The choices we make because of who we are, of our circumstances are more often than not made out of fear or for betterment. We seldom look at our happiness first, but put someone else's before ours.
Those are the lines he reads first when he happens upon the stack on her desk when he gets the duty roster. He is well aware he shouldn't look (had he not all but chastised her when she had picked Grigg's letter from his wastepaper basket?), that it's private what she's been writing, but what she writes is getting to him - the raw honesty of her words and the pain that screams at him, the candid look into what her life is and how she speaks of living painstakingly within the margins of what feels right and what is deemed right. The sheet lies half over a stack of others, all written in her strong hand. He picks up the first page, skimming the text.
Downton Abbey, October 1925
To you. Not mine, but a daughter nonetheless,
Long have I thought how I would comfort you after having been unable to keep you safe. Now I know I am unable to. I cannot return to you what's been lost, only shelter and it's too little. It's not enough to be standing empty-handed, to be practical only, to be standing at the side, unable to move in closer.
I don't remember the particulars of the day you arrived. A mother would know - but I am not your mother and the day you came to Downton was just another day we would welcome a young maid to be trained. You were young, so young and you were determined. I don't know if you were aware that you stood out after three months. That you picked up not simply your own duties, but the finer nuances of service too. That you were sought out by the young Ladies and that your calm cheerfulness was uncommon in our Servants' Hall.
You were - you always will be, I think; it's your nature - dutiful but never docile. You are perceptive, but you never say a word too many. I watched you grow more confident and I told myself you were just a maid, a pretty one, one who was clever and who would soon enough be snatched up by a young man, that I was not to let myself grow too attached - too fond - of you.
I allowed you - and Gwen and the others - to go on church outings, knowing the sun would do you good, that fresh air would chase the dust from your lungs and keep you healthy and strong. I was always amazed at the strength
your body possessed, for it is small and fragile-looking and I knew the boys joining those outings would take a shine to you. Downton's maids were always sought after as wives. My parlour houses an album filled with photographs of weddings I've attended and even more of christenings.
Unlike the others you always came back looking refreshed and ready to get back to work. No boy ever turned your head. It wasn't for their lack of trying.
I wish I could say you reminded me of myself, but that would be a blatant lie. You are fair-haired, I was always dark and you are slight while I am - or rather was - solid. Your temper is even and mine flares. You never encouraged a boy just for the fun of it, just to be showered in a bit of attention. While I had my fair share of followers when I was a lass, but I am no longer a lass; I'm a spinster of mature years. Still, I am no stranger to romance. Just like you I have received the kindnesses of a man who loves me.
The boys tried and failed until Mr Bates arrived at Downton and you immediately saw what we couldn't. Of course I discouraged you, knowing the pain of losing love. He proved me right, at some point. I knew he would hurt you, your heart, that it couldn't last, that it was all too dreamlike. His charm, his kindness, that brooding look (oh, I've seen it, I have always seen him looking at you as if you were made of spun gold and perhaps you are) that seemed to come straight off the pages of a penny dreadful. He left and I tried to console you, knowing the pain of a love lost.
I should have known you wouldn't give up without a fight.
The letter is a thick stack of heavy paper written in her strong hand and he can see how the words have jumped from her heart onto the page. He knows he should put it away. He checks to see how many more pages there are, checks the clock - it's nearly time to go up to serve coffee in the Drawing Room. He is a curious man, though he would never admit it to anyone, and he is not a gentleman, something he has admitted before. But he is a man of integrity (at least, that's what he tells himself and what he believes to be true), so with great difficulty he puts the letter down, puts the desk back to rights and leaves, the rota in his hand.
She sips her tea. She needs a moment before continuing her confession. She has arrived at the hard part. She doesn't shy away from the hard things in life; at least she tries not to, but this will be a difficult part to write. She puts down her cup and unlocks the drawer that holds the stack of paper and the pen she uses - she puts everything away each night before meeting him in his pantry for leftover wine for fear of anyone seeing this epistle, for reading something that is destined for only one person's eyes.
She carefully retrieves what she has written so far, keeps it neat at the left side of the desk and finds where she has left off. Choices. She closes her eyes for a brief moment, shifts in her chair until she is most comfortable and starts writing.
My choice to listen at the grate of my parlour to hear Mr Bates and the former Mrs Bates speak was one made purely out of curiosity. I'll admit it is by far my greatest weakness and while it has often served me, in this case it gave me knowledge that I wish I'd never had and that I wasn't able to hide. Had it been my choice, I would never have mentioned anything, but a court of law doesn't take what a person wants into account. Nor should it, I suppose.
As I stood in the witness box and was being made to repeat what I had overheard, I looked at you and I could see how I almost killed all that was unsaid between us. I could see how betrayed you felt and how there was nothing I could do about it. I knew you had a difficult time forgiving me - much like I had a hard time forgiving myself. During the long months that came after the trial I looked after you from afar.
It was impossible to come close to you - I couldn't allow myself to show my attachment, and I doubt you would have let me. You threw yourself into your work and I saw you grow thin and pale. Every request to see your husband in York I granted, picking up any tasks you left behind or found you couldn't finish. You were relentless in your search for the truth. I worried for you - and him - night and day, your plight never a moment from my mind.
She pulls her pen from the paper, waits for the ink to dry before she can flip it over and take a new leaf to continue. She bites the back of the pen - another bad habit, there are days she thinks she is nothing more than a vessel for bad habits (Her curiosity. How short she sometimes is with her girls. The attachment she forms with those in her care. The comfort she gives herself on cold and lonely nights, tucked away in her small, solitary room). She resigns herself to the fact that her worries are far from over. She hopes that like with the release of Mr Bates, she will feel some relief when she finishes this letter.
He watches her come in and make her way to the seat that has been hers for decades. Always by his side. Sometimes she accidentally bumps into his leg with her knee - these days she doesn't pull back anymore. They are comfortable. They are used to this life of service to others and to the care of those who don't belong to them.
All around the table are familiar faces, the staff not changing as rapidly as it had before the war, when maids married and footmen went off to other houses in hopes of betterment and both boys and girls went off to factories, looking forward to higher wages and shorter hours.
She is looking tired and he remembers the days of her when visits to Dr Clarkson, when he had tricked Mrs Patmore into revealing what was wrong with the Housekeeper. The memory makes him feel all that worry and anxiety again.
"Are you alright?" He asks, careful not to be overheard and she turns to him with a smile.
"Of course." She replies and he finds he doesn't want to push her for more. It can wait until the evening, when he can give her a glass of wine - or two - and perhaps needle her for a bit more information.
Normally, the small, slender ones are hardly noticed. You, however, make an impression on everyone you meet. Your cheerfulness, your kindness and that streak of mischief all leave a lasting impression. Though you did not have an easy time of it those months Mr Bates was not with us, you tried your hardest to fulfill your duties and to keep your pain to yourself.
When he came home, your happiness rubbed off on all of us. I watched you blossom again. You lost the gaunt look and hollowness of your cheeks. Then you put so much energy into making that cottage your home.
It's a lovely home.
Elsie puts down her pen and pours herself another cup of tea. How many of her hopes and expectations can she put in this letter? If she could possibly tell of her lying awake at night thinking how that lovely home should not be empty during the day and that the spare room should have been occupied by a cot at least? She decides she cannot in this confession. This apology. She puts her hand on her breast, confined by the same corset she's been wearing for a great many years and returns to her blank sheet of paper, the pen heavy in her hand, her fingers sore from the tight grip she holds it in.
Only once have we spoken candidly about things, when you were raw and aching and I couldn't help you. All I could do was to be who I am - solid and practical. You didn't need my pity, but you needed my care and I looked after you in the only way I could and the only way you allowed me to. It was good for you to be in control.
Your answer then still haunts me at times. The idea of you killing yourself fills me with a pain I've never known before. I am thankful you were spared the horror of carrying the proof of what's been done to you at least, that you did not have to go through that.
I think I will forever feel that I have failed you. I have a great many tasks, but my greatest is to keep those under my care safe. And I didn't. I didn't see it coming. I was blind. Major Bryant was an open book and Ethel foolish - I had told her to be wise about things.
Of course it is difficult to be wise when you are in love, I am the first to admit to that.
A tear drops on the page and she presses her lips together tightly. She holds her breath, lets it out slowly. How she has let down those who depend on her, she thinks and wraps her arms around herself.
He finds her hunched over in her chair, arms around herself, swaying a bit. She is obviously cold. He shakes his head at her slowly.
"I've run the dinner gong." He says and she nods to show him she's heard him. "I asked if you were alright and you lied," he accuses gently.
She chuckles. "I would," she replies. He reaches out and touches her cheek, looking at her intently, as if she were a work of art.
Perhaps she is. She is beautiful, he thinks.
"Come into the Servants' Hall," he coaxes. "It's warmer there."
"I can't. I have something I need to finish."
His eye falls on the stack of paper he had snuck a peek at before, but he doesn't ask any further. "Here." he says and shrugs out of his tailcoat and wraps it around her. She looks up at him, something warm in her eyes and a tiny smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
"Thank you, Mr Carson."
"Don't mention it." He says and leaves her to her thoughts.
I made the mistake of saying you would be able to put it out of your mind. I know better - I know now and I knew it when I said it. Like all of us, I do say the wrong thing now and again. And I'm afraid I'm nothing if not filled with flaws and weaknesses. I am so very sorry to have added to your pain and your distress in that moment. I am sorry for not having kept you safe. I am sorry for crowding you during the days and weeks and months afterwards.
It is difficult to let go, but I have always trusted you to know yourself and I have always trusted you to do what is right. I know you are doing better now. I watched you with Mr Bates on the beach. You shared a penny lick. The day was bright and I could see how at ease you were - finally, once again - and how in love you were.
Once upon a time - almost thirty years ago - I fell in love with a man who was not at liberty to love me back. He was a tall man with a deep voice and a tendency to walk the moral high ground by himself. He was kind and firm and exasperating. He was intelligent and strong and a little bit arrogant.
He took my breath away.
While I learned my way around this grand house and kept all its secrets (which room is drafty and should only be prepared for those guests who are likely to overstay their welcome, how her Ladyship likes her sheets ironed but not starched, all those little extra things that are perhaps not expected of a housekeeper, but a skill worth building on if you want to do well), I kept loving him.
I have taught you all those little things and I have seen you cultivate your own skills over the years. It's time to let you have those keys. They will feel heavy on your hip at first, but you'll grow used to their weight and their sound.
It is time for me find out if this man I love returns my affections. Now, while I still can.
Anna, my Anna, precious girl, I will be forever sorry I could not protect you from all the bad things that have happened in your life, but I am not sorry that I want to keep you safe. I am sorry that I have said stupid things and made bad choices, but I am not sorry that I love you.
Look after yourself,
Forever faithfully yours,
Elsie Hughes
She puts down her pen and pulls up her shoulders, the clicking sound echoing through the room.
Her apology is there. Her legacy, the only thing that's hers to give.
She leaves her parlour to find him, his tailcoat still wrapped around her, his scent in her nose, surrounding her. He is sitting at the Servants' Hall table, the newspaper spread out. None of the staff has joined him. He looks calm and she is mildly amused by the way he squints at the articles he is trying to read, it's endearing to see him like this, so at ease, as if it's his home, not a grand house belonging to some Earl who employs them.
"It's late." She says and sits down beside him after pulling her chair close to his.
"I was waiting for you," he replies, and she smiles at him.
"I've been waiting for you," she admits, and licks her lip after worrying it for a moment.
"Are you ready to go up?" he asks and she takes a deep breath.
"I am ready to go." She emphasizes what she says by taking his hand.
"Are you unwell?" His question comes out quietly.
"No. But I am not willing to wait until I am, and I wish for a small part of my life to be spent just for me."
"Just for you?"
"Not just me. Not if…" She looks into his eyes and there is something warm there. Something kind.
"Is that why you have locked yourself away these past two weeks?"
"Yes. It's up to her now."
"Does her Ladyship know?"
Elsie brings his hand to her lips. "Not everything."
"I'll fill her in."
They fall silent for a moment.
"Will you join me, Charles? I mean… Will you come with me?" Her voice is steady, her posture straight - as if she is asking him to join her for tea (and she is, every single cup for the rest of their lives, every glass of wine. Blankets shared, and confidences. Love.).
"It's high time I did, isn't it." He takes her hand.
"And will you join me upstairs?" she asks and gets up from her chair.
"I think I will." He pushes back his chair and they are standing chest to chest, hand in hand and he leans in.
He kisses her softly.