A/N: This is my first fanfic in, quite literally, years and it's just a quick one-shot to get the old cogs whirring a little bit. My take on how Mrs Hughes would have felt while Mrs Patmore was carrying out her mission, and how the conversation between the two of them might have gone. Please review if you have the time! I'm probably quite rusty so constructive criticism or confidence boosts are much appreciated, but no flames please. Enjoy! L x
Mrs Hughes sat at her desk, working her way through a stack of invoices, recording figures in her ledger and yawning intermittently. She had hardly slept since sending Mrs Patmore as an envoy to Mr Carson, especially after her first attempt had been unsuccessful. The previous evening, she had retired to bed early, unable to entertain either the prospect of joining her fiancé for sherry or of hiding in her sitting room, waiting anxiously to see if Mrs Patmore would bring news; for she was at once worried that Mrs Patmore's nerve would fail her and that it wouldn't. Even if the cook did manage to extract an answer from Mr Carson, could she bear to hear it? She cringed at the thought. Surely he wouldn't want to be that intimate, not with her age being what it was. Everyone knew that men aged better than women. Yes, he was older than her, but he was strong and handsome. The years had only served to add to the air of capability and dignity which he had always possessed in abundance. She felt that her fair share of good looks had vanished decades ago. But what would she do, after Mrs Patmore had conveyed this inevitable message? Would she laugh it off? Pretend she'd never thought about the alternative? Silence that small part of her that did desire him not only as a friend or companion, but as a proper husband; a lover?
Mrs Hughes had alternated between prospects as she tried to work out her own feelings. Some nights, as she lay awake watching heavy clouds obscure the stars through her skylight, she felt nothing but embarrassment at the very idea. She was hyper-aware of every wrinkle, every millimetre of flesh which had succumbed to gravity, every grey hair. She imagined him trying to let her down gently, perhaps fumbling around for some excuse or other. Imagined how awkward it would feel to lie in bed with him every night with no physical contact – because if he were to find himself so repulsed by her middle-aged body, she could not allow him to embrace her at all without a corset.
Other nights, she would try to imagine a full marriage. It was always difficult to think about at first: she had to break through barriers of self-criticism, caution and embarrassment; not to mention guilt to be imagining such things before marriage and before she even knew whether he wanted her to feel that way. But once the tentative image was there, it took on a life of its own and played like a film in her head. She did not have to contribute any imagination to it. How it would feel to be kissed by him – really kissed, not like the quick pecks she and Joe Burns had hastily and sneakily exchanged, blushing furiously, in barns or behind haystacks. What he – what they both – might do with their hands, what it would feel like to be wrapped around him, to be as one, to conquer that last, momentous act, which she had thought she would die without experiencing. And not only to enter this new world of physical intimacy and pleasures, but to do so with a man whom she loved so much that she felt as if her heart would burst every time he looked into her eyes.
Such ideas would invariably lead to an undiagnosed, dissatisfied feeling of discomfort and strange, hot flushes, which would often persist long enough to send Mrs Hughes tip-toeing to the bathroom to splash her face with cold water, returning to bed only to continue lying awake, puzzling over this strange, either new or forgotten feeling and reminding herself not to count her chickens before they'd hatched.
Then there were the worst nights of all, when the thoughts which kept her awake were not what kind of marriage they would have, but whether they would have one at all. If they could not agree on this, or Mr Carson had to confess to some level of disgust at the idea of an intimate relationship, would their wedding really go ahead? Mrs Patmore had made it quite clear that the idea of living "as brother or sister", loving or not, was downright odd. And perhaps it was. Perhaps they would just call it off, continue working together until they died in service, and their physical presences on this earth would fade independently along with their respective memories, just like all the other dusty, old relics of a bygone era.
It was thoughts of either the first or last category which had troubled Mrs Hughes for the last couple of nights. She was exhausted, having lain awake for the entirety of the previous night, alternating between imagining dying alone and imagining a marriage without intimacy, watching the sky change colours and finally rising in exasperation before the customary six-o-clock wake-up call. Now, she passed a hand across her eyes, trying to wave away the headache she felt brewing, and turned the page in her ledger, musing that she ought to go and get a cup of tea to keep her awake.
As if her thoughts had drifted down the hallway and into the kitchen, there was a rap at her door a couple of minutes later. She turned cautiously in her chair, glancing nervously at the door as if an axe-murderer might burst through it, before calling out her permission to enter.
"Tea?" enquired Mrs Patmore rhetorically, barging in with a full tray.
Mrs Hughes felt a sweep of alarm spread from her chest right down to her toes, then composed herself and smiled jerkily.
"Please," she gestured towards the table, and crossed over to one of its chairs as Mrs Patmore took the other, pouring tea into two cups and rattling around for an eternity with teaspoons and milk and biscuits. Mrs Hughes watched her, torn between impatience and a desire for her to never stop serving the tea.
Eventually, her colleague settled back in her chair and eyed her like a governess eyeing a naughty child.
"You've worked yourself up into a right state, haven't you?"
It was more of a statement than a question. Mrs Hughes looked out of the window.
"Well, I've spoken to him," Mrs Patmore said, less brusquely this time but with a note of triumph at having achieved her difficult mission, waving a hand in front of her friend's face. Mrs Hughes reluctantly met her eyes.
"Firstly, I've got nothing bad to say," she declared.
"I'm not sure I even know what would constitute 'bad', Mrs Patmore", Mrs Hughes mused, then forced out a quick laugh, pretending that she was just being facetious.
Mrs Patmore ignored her.
"He does," she emphasised the verb, glancing at the door then dropping her voice for the rest of the sentence, "want a full marriage."
Mrs Hughes gaped at her for a moment. Her mind reeled with questions – not least of which was how on earth did she herself feel about this?
"Was he terribly embarrassed?" she asked in a voice much smaller than usual.
"No, actually. He said something about embarrassment not having a place in something so important. He's taking this very seriously, you know, Mrs Hughes." It sounded almost like an admonishment, which Mrs Hughes vaguely noted was rich coming from Mrs Patmore, but she was too appreciative of her help to mention this.
Mrs Patmore leaned further across the table, maintaining eye contact, wordlessly telling Mrs Hughes that everything she was about to say was true. Mrs Hughes took a sip of tea, allowing its warmth to calm her slightly in preparation for more revelations.
"He asked me to tell you," she continued, smiling slightly, "that he thinks you're beautiful."
Mrs Hughes was stunned.
"He... What?"
"You heard."
Mrs Hughes glanced back out of the window, unable to prevent a small smile from playing around her lips.
"Well," she replied, "that's... very kind of him."
"He wasn't being kind," Mrs Patmore responded, sounding a bit frustrated. "Well, I mean, he wasn't being unkind, but he wasn't saying it because he's kind. He means it."
"What makes you so sure?" she asked, unable to prevent the question, despite knowing that Mr Carson wouldn't say such a thing unless he meant it and that Mrs Patmore wouldn't make it up.
"Because he kept going on about how he wants a real marriage," came the reply, "and because... Well, I'm not sure I should be the one to say this, but..."
"Oh, go on," Mrs Hughes pressed, her nerves shunted aside by her curiosity.
"He said that he loves you," the cook responded, frowning slightly as she tried to remember everything. "He said that he's happy, tickled and bursting with pride that you want to be his wife, and he wants you to live as closely as two people can for the rest of your time on earth. So, there."
There was another stunned silence. Mrs Hughes blinked several times in quick succession, trying to work out if Mrs Patmore had really just repeated those things.
"Oh," she eventually managed.
"Oh? Is that all you can say?" Mrs Patmore looked at her as if she were a beggar who'd just turned down fifty pounds.
"I... It's a lot to take in," she admitted.
"Yes, I suppose so," Mrs Patmore acknowledged, her tone not unsympathetic. "And before you ask, I can't tell you what to do. Just take your time... And make the right decision."
"But what is the right decision?"
"Whatever you decide," Mrs Patmore answered ambiguously, rising from her chair and collecting their empty teacups on the tray.
"Yes, I suppose..." she murmured, her mind full of Mr Carson's affectionate words. She looked up suddenly at her friend. "Thank you, Mrs Patmore," she said sincerely. "You've been a great help... and a great comfort."
"No, I'm glad to have helped," replied Mrs Patmore, who was relieved that she'd managed to bring the two of them a step closer towards marriage without having to physically bang their heads together, despite all the awkwardness. "Just - and remember that if there must be loyalties one way or the other, mine lie with you... Probably..." Mrs Patmore stopped, looking uncertain, her mind clearly inventing a situation in which Mrs Hughes behaved abominably.
"I know what you mean," she prompted, trying not to laugh at her friend's sudden discomfort, "carry on..."
"Try not to keep him waiting too long," Mrs Patmore finished, surprisingly softly. "He really cares about you, you know. And he knows I'm telling you all this. Not knowing how you feel about it is going to trouble him."
"I know," she said, and it was true. "I don't want to keep him on tenterhooks. He's done nothing to deserve it..."
That's not true, said a cross little voice at the back of her mind, he wouldn't call you Elsie. She tried to disregard it. Mr Carson found change very hard and he was already trying his best for her; she would not push him. Besides, she was hardly behaving like an ecstatic bride herself.
"I'll make up my mind soon," she promised herself as much as Mrs Patmore. The cook nodded.
"Well, I'll leave you to it," she said. "You've got a lot to think about."
Briefly patting Mrs Hughes' shoulder as she passed, Mrs Patmore let herself out of the housekeeper's sitting room, leaving Mrs Hughes at the table, staring at the spot where her tea had recently sat.
So, he thought she was beautiful – and he loved her. Love! She couldn't stop visualizing him saying it in her mind's eye. Whether or not she loved him was not even up for debate. She'd loved him for much longer, she thought, than she had known; for years – no, decades – of carefully building friendship and trust and gradually caring about each other more and more.
Was love enough? Should she go to him right now and tell him that she felt the same way, and they'd cross all the other bridges when they came to them? Or should she wait, until she was sure she was comfortable with the physical aspect of their relationship?
She decided, in the end, on the latter. It would be foolhardy to go rushing to his pantry now, still all in a tither from hearing about the lovely way in which he had spoken of her, only to then get cold feet and give him mixed messages. He deserved a proper, final answer, and this he would get, as soon as she was ready to give it. Making a strange noise that was somewhere between a happy and a stressed sigh, she moved back to her desk and pulled her invoices back towards her. She would distract herself for a while and let it sink in, then think about it properly later.
All of this, however, was just caution. Mrs Hughes knew, deep down, what she wanted. She knew that if he really did think she was beautiful, and that there was no chance of her feeling ridiculous, there was no aspect of marriage which she wanted to leave unexplored. Suddenly, the physicality and vulnerability of consummation didn't seem so frightening. She had failed, in her considerations, to realise that he would not be inspecting her body, looking for signs of age to criticise. He would not expect her to be as... energetic (even the thought made her blush) as a young woman might be. It was so easy to view that side of things as either a duty, a necessity to fully legalise a marriage or, in the case of a younger couple, reproduce; or as a vulgar act which those who could not control their physical urges partook in purely for some base kind of pleasure. For herself and Mr Carson, though, Mrs Hughes thought, it was more about the chance to know everything about each other. To learn for the first time what it is to hold, and be held by, someone you love. Not to sleep alone in a cold, hard, single bed for the first time in years, if ever. Surely, to be so intimate with someone you loved so much must mean something in a way that wasn't primarily for the sake of physical pleasure or duty? Surely it must form such a special bond between two people, especially two people who had loved each other from afar as long as they had? She supposed that she would find out, and would have been lying if she told herself that she wasn't looking forward to doing so, nervous or not.
Most importantly, however, Mrs Hughes knew that she loved her fiancé unconditionally. She knew that, once she allowed herself to be completely sure, they would indeed, soon, set the date for their wedding. That Mr Carson was as, if not more, invested in this relationship than she had dared to believe and, finally, that every vow she would speak on her wedding day would be nothing but the pure and holy truth. She smiled. She would tell him soon. But first, invoices.
In the servants' hall, filled with the noise of chatter, music, laughter and the clinking of glasses, Mrs Patmore smiled at Sergeant Willis as he did a little bow at the end of the song, excusing himself because he was on duty early the next morning. She bade him good night and left the room herself, heading to the kitchen for a glass of water. As she finished it and placed the glass in the sink, she heard the sound of a door opening along the corridor. Peeping around the kitchen doorframe, she watched as Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes exited his pantry, holding hands. The corners of her mouth twitched. Mr Carson had leant down to murmur something into Mrs Hughes' ear, and whatever it was, it made her smile more than Mrs Patmore could ever remember seeing. She was both pleased and mildly embarrassed to be spying when her friend stood briefly on tiptoes and kissed Mr Carson's cheek. He smiled soppily at her, and Mrs Patmore thought it best to reveal herself before they forgot themselves.
"All sorted then, I take it?" she said in a low, yet brisk, voice as she emerged from the kitchen. The couple in front of her turned round, automatically letting go of each other's hands.
"Yes, Mrs Patmore," Mr Carson answered, "thanks to you."
Mrs Patmore nodded her acceptance of his gratitude and smiled at them both.
"You'll save me a front pew, then?" she teased.
"And a bottle of the port I hear you're so partial to..." Mrs Hughes answered, exchanging a sly glance with her soon-to-be husband. "It's a small price to pay for such a favour."
Mrs Patmore laughed.
"Well, you can't say fairer than that."
"No," Mr Carson agreed, "you most certainly can't."