ARGYLL, SCOTLAND, 1890

Elsie Hughes didn't cry at her father's funeral. But not because she wouldn't miss him.

Dodie Hughes had been an honest man, a hard worker. He'd tried to love Elsie, love Becky, and maybe he'd not always done that so right. But he did love her Mam, and as Elsie watched her mother — Maggie, who had aged a century in a few days time — she thought maybe that was all that mattered in the end.

Elsie was twenty-eight now. An old maid by all accounts. Oddly enough, she didn't feel any different than she'd felt at eight, or eighteen. Decades did nothing but add lines to her face.

Time had, however, made it a lot easier to lose things. The last few seasons had not been fruitful, and she delivered more than a few dead calves. She'd lost childhood friends and schoolyard sweethearts to the fever.

Nearly lost Becky, too, but she'd rallied — though she was still weak, and next to her at their father's grave the sisters stood, leaning one another's weight. Wondering if the next gust of wind might blow them over.

"Da's gone innit he, Elsie?" Becky said, flapping her hands nervously. Elsie reached down, taking one gently, soothing it with the pad of her thumb.

"Aye. Gone to Jesus, Becky," Elsie whispered, squinting across the village graveyard to where her mother stood, ensconced in late afternoon sunlight, surrounded by women from town who meant well, but didn't really understand.

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want," Becky said, her voice steady and all one slightly off-key note. She'd always talked like that, even as a child. Elsie'd stopped trying to fathom why, only knew that it made people stare. Convinced them the lass was daffier than she really was.

"Ye kin say yer prayer, if it makes ye feel better, hen," Elsie sighed, knowing that even if she'd left it unsaid, Becky would repeat it, cycling over and over again until she wore herself out or lost her voice.

"The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want, The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want, The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want—"

"I'm sorry bout yer Da, Elsie."

Elsie turned at the voice, a kind one that quivered with age but not insincerity.

"Mrs. Brodie," Elsie said, taking the woman's shaking hand, "Ya didn't haft'a come out fur this. Here, I'll walk ye home—"

Mrs. Brodie chuckled, "Elsie Hughes, yer as stubborn as an arse," she pat Elsie's forearm gently, "I'll donner home jus' fine. Yer always takin' keer o' someone else when ye oughta be the one being taken keered of."

Elsie lowered her gaze, "Ye know me, Mrs Brodie, the lonely spinster o' Argyll."

"Ack!" Mrs Brodie coughed, "Enough'a dat havering! Ye'll find a nice lad one day, or strike me dead," she looked around, cringing slightly, "But I dinnae think ye'll find him here," she shrugged, leaning in so close to Elsie's face that she could smell the Lavender soap in her white hair, "Embra, mebbe. Or leave Scotland al't'gether."

"I cannae leave her," Elsie whispered, "Not with Da gone. Someone's got ta look after Becky so Mam can farm," she sighed, "We've got to find some lads willing to work, we cannae manage the two of us — and we'll be skint without Da t' work."

"Any family you could tap a pound or two from?"

"Nay," Elsie said quietly, "Just Mam, Becky and I now."

Mrs Brodie sighed, "If I 'ad any spondoolies I'd give 'em to ye."

"I know ye would," Elsie said, "Ye've always been so kind to me," she shrugged, "Not shure why neither," she smiled, "I was a daffy lass, aye?"

"Nay! Ye were— and ye are—a well good lass Elsie," Mrs Brodie said, putting her warm hand gently against Elsie's cheek, "And yer cannie; too cannie t' spend the rest of yer days clomping round that farm in yer wellies, breakin' in horses and lookin' after others before ye look after yerself,"

"Yer always clyping on to me about what I shud do," Elsie said, "What makes me any diff'rent from anyone else?"

Mrs Brodie smiled, her eyes glinting a bit, "I think ye know, Elsie, and my advice is this: go as far in life as God and luck will allow."

"Heyah! C'mon, ye old fud, let's go," Elsie yipped, giving her horse a swift kick. Around her, the field billowed in the wind, a golden sea she'd've liked to drown in. Rare was the morn she had to herself, but once a fortnight or so she rose before the rooster and headed off into the village for fabric, tools, whatever was needed to keep the farm running.

She lingered as long as she could, savoring what little freedom these rides allowed her. Any moment away from the farm was welcomed, even if it was just replacing one set of chores for another. At least if she was in the village she might entertain the idea of knowing what was happening in the rest of the world — the novels she read were decades in history, giving her nothing particular helpful about the state of the world she was presently biding in. Not that it'd make much difference, she thought, watching the sun begin to peak up over the horizon ahead of her. It seemed to grow father and farther away from her with every day that passed.

As she drew nearer the village, she slowed her horse to a trot and looked about to see if any of the chimneys were pumping out smoke; a sure sign there'd be a cuppa to be had, and she was overdue for one. She knew mostly everyone in Argyll and Bute, or at least knew of them. She wasn't one to chinwag, but she listened well and people liked her better for it. She wasn't sure that she had any friends, really — she didn't have time to plant anything that might grow aside from seedlings and lingering self-doubt—but one thing she took pride in was that no one could justifiably saying a bad word about her. And even if they did, no one'd believe it.

She tugged at the reigns and her old mare came to a halt, kicking up dust beneath her hooves. Elsie swung her leg around and dismounted, her tiny frame practically making no more than a thud in the dirt as her feet touched the ground. Her long auburn plait thwacked against her back and she ran a hand along her britches, a few errant strands of hay having left the barn with her.

"G'morn Elsie!"

She looked up and saw Mr O'Roarke out front of his shop, kicking a stone in front of the door to hold it open.

"G'morn, Mr O'Roarke," she called back, "Spare a cuppa?"

"Fir ye hen? Alweez!" he laughed, gesturing for her to come inside. His shop was small and dimly lit, but Elsie liked it, mostly because it was always tidy and she could find whatever she needed without having to ask.

"Hav'a sit doon and I'll put another kettle on," he said, "Tilly jus' took bread out the oven, kin I fix you some?"

"Nay, a bevvy will do me," she smiled, "An' Mam's got a list. Becky's on about a few snashters,"

"She likes them toffees don't she?"

"Aye," Elsie sighed, calling to where Mr O'Roarke had disappeared to tend the kettle, "She'd eat 'em for brekkie if we'd let her."

"She's a sweet one she is," Mr O'Roarke called back, "Mebbe cuz of all those sweets you get her," he appeared in the doorway with two teacups, "How's yer Mam?"

Elsie shrugged, taking the teacups from him and settling them onto the table as he disappeared behind the curtain again, "Ack, she's a brae woman, runnin' the farm without me Da. I help when I kin but mostly I keep Becky on the straight 'n narrow."

"And yer doing a fine job of it," Mr O'Roarke said gently, appearing again with a plate of toast and jam, and a fresh pot of tea, "I remember when you two lassies would come in here, hiding in yer mam's skirts. . ."

Elsie smiled, "Aye. I cannae reckon how she's twenty and five —"

"Ever think ye'll on yer trolley, lass? Even if ye only get so far as Glasga . . ."

"Nay, even when am away hame long enough to come in'ta town fir these errands, it throws Mam fir a loop," she said, laughing sadly, "I'll nay see farther than Bute, Mr O'Roarke. Inno that much.

Reaching behind him to the counter, Mr O'Roarke grabbed a newspaper, bringing it down to the table between them and fumbling for his spectacles.

"D'ye plan to hire some lads from the village for calving? Ye can't do it alone," Mr O'Roarke said.

"We'll hafta," Elsie said, "But I dunno with what money. We've barely got enough and if we have a harvest half so bad as last year's. . ."

"My Jennie's taken a job in one o' dem manor houses," he said, "You 'member Jennie?"

"Aye," Elsie nodded, "She's Becky's age, yeah?"

Mr O'Roarke nodded, "There was an advertisement fir a parlor maid, right in here," he said, pushing the newspaper across the table to Elsie, "Them ladies of those houses write 'em up, looking fir lassies to come on as maids or governesses," he shrugged, "Hard work but nothing so hard as breakin' yer back on the farm. At the end of her first year she made almost two thousand pounds."

Elsie's eyes widened, "All that fir cleanin' and mending?"

He nodded, "I 'spose they taught her other things too. Now she's got it in her head she'll be a Lady's Maid one day," he shrugged, "And I love that lass but yer cannier than she is, Elsie, you could do real well in one o' dem houses. Mebbe you'd even run one b'fore ye yer Mam's age."

Running her finger along an ad that caught her eye, the ink still a bit wet from being pressed and the warmth of her hands staining it further, she read carefully, mouthing the words quietly to herself.

WANTED: HOUSEMAID. Sprawling Scottish country home seeks bright, capable, hardworking young woman, 20-25 as housemaid. 7 acre estate manor home, turning over bedrooms, changing linens, cleaning, mending. Should be courteous and listen well, quick study's coveted. Experience preferred, but head housemaid and housekeeper willing to take on a young woman of less experience if she's eager, committed and has stellar personal references. Please post resumes to Mr Robert Laidlaw Balmory Hall, Rothesay, Isle of Bute, Scotland

"That's a ways away," Elsie said, looking up at Mr O'Roarke, "Bute's a day's train ride, yah?"

"Aye," he said, "I'm sure ye could find something closer to home."

Elsie shrugged, biting the nail of her thumb, "May I keep this page, Mr O'Roarke?"

"Why d'think I showed it to ye?" he winked, downing the last of his tea, "Now let's see about yer Mam's list, yeah?"

"I'm going up," Maggie said, wrapping her housecoat tighter round her shoulders. She hovered in the kitchen doorway, lit only by the low light of the candle she was holding, "Lass, I wish ye wouldn't read in the dark, yer gonna go blind."

Elsie looked up from her book, squinting at her mother, her eyes adjusting to how the room had lost light all around her for the hours she'd been sitting there since they'd cleaned up their supper dishes.

"Look in on Becky would ye," Elsie said, "She's still wheezing a bit at night,"

"I know, Elsie," Maggie said, "I'm her Mam, don't ye forget it."

Elsie sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose, "I'm sorry, Mam. Ye know I worry."

"I wish ye'd worry about yer self once in a while," Maggie said quietly, "Ye haven't been eatin' well for weeks. Yer toaty! Oughta put some meat on yer bones before the snow comes."

"I'm fine, Mam. Go on t' bed."

"Elsie," Maggie said gently, stepping into kitchen, flicking dripping wax from her fingers, "Ye've got to take keer of yerself. How will you look after Becky? And when I'm gone and there's no one else — ye can't grow old before yer time."

As her mother stepped closer, Elsie tucked a torn piece of newsprint between the pages of her book, looking up at her mother with tired eyes that she hoped would not betray her.

"I'm in fine fettle," Elsie said, "Mr O'Roarke asked after ye while I was at the shop today,"

"How's his lass, Jennie?"

"Ack! Minted is what," Elsie laughed, "She's a parlor maid at one of them estate houses."

Maggie was quiet.

Elsie felt heat rise in her cheeks and was grateful that the room held hardly more light than the candle her mother held, and the one on the table that was steadily burning itself down.

"Well," Maggie sighed, "I'm goin' up — need a bit o' kip, that sun rises earlier every day."

"G'night, Mam," Elsie said, opening her book again, returning her attention to the tattered pages and worn words.

Maggie turned, then looked back over her shoulder, hovering in the doorway. She watched her eldest daughter read, trying to remember her as a wee bairn. It was hard to see Elsie Hughes any way other than as a grown woman though. With her long, auburn hair pulled back with a ribbon, her cool blue eyes almost black as they scanned the page, her long fingers, a lady's hands— save for her nails, worn to the quick and bloodied— she looked just the same to Maggie as she always had. Older and wiser than her age would suggest.

Elsie wrote the letter three times over before she finally found the courage to postmark it. Still, she held it in her shaking hands, staring at the address in her less-than-perfect script. Running her finger along the envelope's crease, she vowed to perfect her penmanship and then, before losing her nerve, stuffed it into the pocket of her skirts.

"Mam, I'm goin' into town, do ye need anything?" she said, though she hardly paused to give Maggie time enough to respond. It wasn't her usual day to take a trip into the village, but at the risk of disrupting Becky's schedule, she had to get the letter into the post, lest it not arrive in Bute before the Laidlaw's filled the housemaid position. Balmory Hall was perhaps a train ride from Argyll, to the south. From what little she could gather from the village about the Laidlaw's, it was a country home desperately in need of a woman's hand. Robert Laidlaw was a wealthy businessman from Glasgow who had purchased the estate, though since his wife Christina had taken ill after the birth of her last child and required respite in the North Highlands, he frequented it less and less. Two of his sons, however, had remained and without feminine influence, it had turned rather to shambles. Mr Laidlaw was, thusly, in manic search of stern, capable women to join the staff and rid the home of it's fraternal frivolity.

Some girls, more proper than Elsie, may have thought it entirely improper to serve a house that did not have a marquess or countess to lead the staff. But Elsie had no reservations. She'd grown up with farmhands, village boys, could easily hold her own among men. She'd learned, at the hand of her father, that a woman's power and strength could be tried by her brothers, her sons, her husbands and lovers — but that she needn't be a servant entirely to them. She could always manage to keep her heart to herself.

She'd managed to get as far as the barn before her mother came charging across the yard, her skirts hiked up nearly to her knees as she ran. Hoisting herself up onto her horse and grabbing the reins, Elsie tipped her chin up only slightly — not defiant, but assured.

"Elsie it's notchur errand day," Maggie said, reaching up to shield her eyes from the early morning, "Why d'you need to go fir? Ye know it upsets yer sister."

"It cannae wait, mam," Elsie said, clicking her tongue at her old mare, "I won't be long, half the morn, mebbe."

"What's the fash about?" Maggie pressed, "Ye know damn well if yer lyin' to me I'll find ye out, Elsie Margaret. Mark my words, and a woman ye may be but I'm not above givin' you a paddlin' if —"

Elsie whipped the reins sharply against the horse's side, "I'm not lyin' to ye, Mam. Ye know I don't," she yipped and the horse began to trot, leading her down the path away from the farm, kicking up dirt in its wake, "But there are things I don't say," Elsie said, under her breath, in the wake she left as her voice carried back toward the farmhouse.

May 11th, 1890

Dear Miss Hughes,

Thank you kindly or your inquiry into the housemaid position at Balmory and the sending of your references. I hope that this note finds you well, and that you have not accepted a position elsewhere.

Please do not take offense at my returning your letter rather than my mother, who is of course the lady of the house. She is, at present, in the North with my father for a period of respite. In their absence, my father has insisted that I maintain a full staff at Balmory Hall. I admit, something I am not altogether eager to do.

I was impressed, however, with your reference as well as your letter. Though you lack previous experience, which I'm sure would have put doubt into my mother's heart, I find your assuredness to be an asset, and no doubt it will serve Balmory well — as it stands now, between my brother Port and I, it is rather an unwieldy estate in need of keen management.

You would be expected to perform the duties of both a general housemaid and a chamber maid, attending to our guests. We entertain often, particularly when father has gone to visit with Mama. We would appreciate a woman of discreet nature for this reason.

We would like to offer you the position at a starting wage of 20 pounds annually. This is considerably more generous an offer than other manor houses in Scotland would make to you, or England for that matter. In the event you have been offered another position, please consider our promised wages before making a commitment. I eagerly await your response.

Sincerely,

Mr. Thomas Laidlaw*

"Twenty pounds?" Maggie gasped, snatching the letter from Elsie's hands, "Oh, Elsie. . ."

"I know, Mam — I've got t'go, can't ye see? This is my chance. If I lived there— think of how much I can send home t'you and Becky."

Maggie furrowed her brow a moment, then looked up at Elsie, softening a bit, "Seems ye've made quite an impression," she said, carefully folding the letter and setting it on the table between them. Elsie held her breath, searching her mother's face.

"Seems I have. . ." Elsie whispered, almost inaudibly.

"Well," Maggie said, reaching over to take Elsie's hand, "Jus wait 'till he sees you."

A/N: The Laidlaws were a real family who lived at Balmory Hall (it was then renamed the Laidlaw Memorial Home) — it's now owned privately and used as an inn, I believe. I've taken a lot of liberties here because my research into the estate and the families that lived there is in early days. But I liked the idea of Elsie's first housemaid experience being in a male-dominated environment, in a smaller house, where she could have quickly risen in the ranks and become very attractive to a larger estate like Downton.