A/N: for the occasion of akachankami's (belated) birthday. I adore Carson and Mrs. Hughes but haven't made them front and center in a story before, so I'm afraid there's a lot of stumbling around here. I can only hope that I've served them well. *chewing nails*

I asked for prompts but couldn't settle on one, so it's a total mishmash! From the birthday girl herself, I used: what would a gentleman do; modern day AU in which they run a restaurant or a theatre/acting company. I played with Revfrog's prompt: A shared half-day and Charles keeps his illness from Elsie. (You'll see!)

Another three bottles of Shiraz fetched from the cellar; these blasted theater people drank like fish, but the money was good; the patter of her soles on the stairs matched her scurrying thoughts going to the supply orders—that silly girl Edna not showing up for her shift. And Elsie Hughes barreled right into a solid wall where no wall was before.

"I beg your pardon," said deep and melodious notes from the southern reaches of her homeland. Hands grasped the bottles slipping from her suddenly loose hands. The wall was gray worsted wool waistcoast, buttoned high to a black silk tie.

Craning her neck, she looked up, up, up. From under a shelf of thick brows, a gentleman was looking down, down, down at her over an impressive nose.

"May I assist you?" he said.

"With?"

"This wine."

Elsie got her balance back. "Right. Follow me." She pushed past; a woman with a renewed mission.

A wine bar was a very good business in an upstate New York tourist town—antiques in the spring, hikers in the summer, leaf peepers in in the fall, skiers in the winter and for this insane fortnight over the solstice, the Buckhorn Stage Festival was on.

Her gaze swept the room, ticking off each table, the customers, the staff; everything she knew well and controlled with an iron hand in a velvet glove. But there was her niece at a corner table. Always so dependable; a sergeant to her commander. Until the last month when she'd been smitten by a playwright. That was bad enough, but he was also an Irish playwright. Elsie knew that her niece was good and lost to her; it was just a matter of time.

The blonde head turned away from the dark one and Anna smiled at her aunt, then her eyes shifted higher, her gaze curious. Elsie glanced over her shoulder. She'd forgotten the wall of a man for a moment. In the full light, he was even more impressive, if a bit out of place.

"Are you putting on a Jeeves and Wooster production?" she asked, taking in his costume of mourning coat, pin-striped pants, and highly polished boots.

He gave a half bow. "No, m'lady—"

There was a giggle at her elbow. Anna had joined her, leaving her brooding playwright for a moment.

The man carefully set the wine bottles down on the bar. "I am in the Busman's Honeymoon, down at the Big Barn Theater."

"As a butler?"

He sniffed, a deep rumbling sound like a bull elephant's trumpet. "A gentleman's gentleman. Not simply a butler."

"Bully for you," Elsie said with delight, giving him another once over.

He accepted her suggestion for a sherry, balancing the small glass is his big paw. "Just the thing," he said, sitting at one of the small tables, his back remaining ramrod straight. "But just one, please. Must keep my wits about me. Final rehearsal tonight."

Anna watched her playwright go to the table holding his two stars, a couple of cantankerous old women, Vi and Izzy. "John has to rehearse too," she said with a sigh.

The man's face lit up. "There's nothing like opening night."

"John's worried that things aren't going well," Anna told him.

"A poor final rehearsal means good opening night," he reassured her.

"There's a lot of superstitions with the theater?" Elsie asked. She had her doubts about John Bates's play. It was one of those terribly modern things with a black drape for a set and two characters sitting on stools for an hour and a half. And she really thought the plot, what there was of it, sounded an awful lot like What Ever Happened to Baby Jane.

He looked down that hawk's beak of a nose at her, taller than her even while seated. "They are no superstitions," he protested. "But simply truthisms."

Controlling her smile, Elsie asked his name. "So I may look for you in my playbill."

There was a pause before he answered. "Charles Carson."

Elsie introduced herself and Anna.

"Thank you for this delightful sherry, Mrs. Hughes," he said.

For some reason, she felt the need to correct him quickly. "I'm not married."

He looked around her establishment, from its highly polished bar to the glistening chandeliers. "Oh, but you are, Mrs. Hughes."

She started to protest again, but he rose. "I must get to the theater." Bowing at the waist, he thanked her again and reached for his wallet.

Holding up a hand, she told him, "I'll start a tab. Surely you'll be back."

She decided that he had a very nice smile for such a dignified persona. It suggested deep laughs and long, funny stories on dark winter evenings.

It had been years since Elsie had attended any of the festival's shows. Her bar packed with theater folks for weeks was enough.

But she attended Busman's Honeymoon. A young couple, Mary and Matthew Crawley, played newlywed detectives, a nobleman and his wife, in one of those delightful old stories about a murder in an English village, decades ago when things were much simpler. And the lord's valet had many good lines, she thought.

The cast came back to the bar afterwards to toast their opening night. Outside of their roles, they were simply more Americans in jeans and tee shirts. All but Charles. He remained in his costume. She wondered if he didn't own any of his own clothes but no one from the cast commented, so she kept her thoughts to herself.

Charles introduced her to Charlie Griggs, the show's director. Alice Griggs, his wife, played Miss Twitterton in the play but off the stage, was a down-to-earth woman with a knowing gaze, very unlike her excessively silly, flustered character. .

"We've been friends for many years," Alice said, watching Elsie watch Charles. "So many shows—" Her smile became pained. "Charlie and I want it to be our last one, but Charles—"

"He seems to love the theater," noted Elsie.

"It's his life," and the way the actress said it chilled Elsie to the bone.

A routine was entered into. Charles came for luncheon every day before his show's matinee and returned for a glass of sherry after the evening performance. A man dressed to answer the front door in a manor home should have made Elsie uncomfortable, but the truth was the years in America with its loose and loud ways had worn on her. His voice, smooth and deep as caramel, was a balm for her prickled nerves.

She asked, "Where are you from exactly? London? I can't place your accent."

He only smiled and sipped his sherry. "Here and there. A servant must not offend with coarse tones. It's best to present an agreeable manner at all times."

She furrowed her brow and sipped her own drink. "I see."

"You are from the lowlands, though."

"Yes, indeed."

"McDuff is one of my favorite roles. Depending on the director, I can do him in full Highlands glory, a rough from the Orknies, or a lowlands farmer." For each, he changed his dialect.

She could not help but clap and he beamed back.

"But how did you end up with Yorkshire niece?" he asked.

"My sister moved over the border as soon as she finished school and married a Yorkshireman," Elsie said with a sigh. "Anna's wanted adventure when I did, and we came to America together."

He looked around the wine bar but did not comment.

"I'm sure to an actor, this isn't much of an adventure," she said defensively.

His face shuttered. "You'd be surprised."

"In that case, come along with us to the lake this Thursday. I know there's no matinees," she said, cutting off his protest.

He studied his empty glass, turning it slowly. "It's true. Thursday is my half-day." The tips of his ears were pink. "It shall be a cracking adventure, I suppose."

Beaverdam Lake had wide sandy beaches, a delight on the hot summer days. Yet Charles still wore his costume, only removing his jacket, tie and starched collar as a concession to the warmth.

"Silly man," Elsie said, hands on hips, to Anna.

"He's got style," Anna suggested, shading her eyes to watch Charles carefully roll up his trousers. Then she noticed John making a beeline for the ice cream cart parked in the parking lot.

"Have you put on sunscreen?" she called after him, scolding like a mother. "You'll burn like a lobster!" When he appeared not to hear her—or was ignoring her—she gave chase.

Elsie said, "Silly girl," with just as much affection as she had for the reticent actor.

Carson was tentatively standing at the water's edge, the gentle waves from swimmers offshore washing over his bare toes.

Holding her sundress's skirt out of the water, Elsie joined him. "Well, come along then," she urged.

"What if I slip? My uniform—"

"What if the sun falls out of the sky? What if all the glaciers melt and flood us out? What if there's a batch of quicksand right here?" Elsie raved. "Let's just take the risk, shall we?"

She grasped his hand before he could refuse and started off, deeper and deeper. When the water was just below his knees, she stopped and turned her face up to the sunshine.

"Only two more performances after tonight," she said carefully.

"Yes."

"You've got another job booked?" Her head dropped. "Somewhere else?"

"Always do. The show must go on."

His fingers loosened in her grip but she didn't let his hand go.

"John Bates has accepted a job at the community college. He'll start a little theater group...More of his black drapes and realistic monologues full of 'ummms' I suppose," she admitted. She couldn't quite see Charles perched on a stool in jeans and a jumper, and was glad for it.

"Bully for him," grumbled Charles and now she did pull her hand away.

Sloshing back to the shore, she didn't look to see if he had fallen after all. Let him make his own way.

Elsie would have avoided Charles until he left town, but Alice Griggs had booked the wine bar for the wrap party, and she couldn't pass on the money. She sensed that she'd be backing a few experimental and money-losing plays in the future.

As if reading her mind, John Bates looked up from his notebook and smiled her way from his table. Anna was serving, but took a moment to drop a kiss on the top of his head.

The cast entered in loud, tight knots of excitedly chattering actors. Charles Carson entered last of all, still in his costume, even tonight. Elsie turned away from the sight of him.

Alice Griggs, under the pretense of paying for the evening, asked to see Elsie in her office.

"You've got to understand about Charles," she started, her palm on her checkbook.

"Is there a reason why I should?"

"I'm worried about what will become of him."

"You are in love with him," said Elsie, wishing for that patch of quicksand to appear after all. Whether under Alice Griggs or herself, she couldn't decide.

Alice laughed. "A long time ago and to a different man. It was our first play together," she explained. "I was Stella, he was Stanley in A Streetcar Named Desire. He was so strong, so passionate..."

Elsie shifted on her chair, surprised at the hot jealousy. What had Charles looked like with his tight white vest and unruly hair?

"But then the production ended, and we went on to The Secret Life of Walter Mitty and my brooding lover was...Gone." Alice tipped her head. "Do you understand what I mean?"

"Not really," admitted Elsie.

Alice fought tears. "I've come to believe that there is no Charles Carson."

"What?" gasped Elsie.

"Did you ever see a TV show called Mother May I?"

"Oh yes," said Elsie. "When I first came to the States, I ate up all the classic shows that were on the afternoon telly. Thought it would help me understand this place." She shrugged. It had been a futile exercise.

"Charles was little Charlie Carson then. Played Petey, the middle son."

"Really? I wouldn't have known him..." Perhaps the eyes—such dark, melancholy eyes on a young boy.

"It was a huge hit. Second only to I Love Lucy," Alice told her. "Ran five years, but when it ended, Charles was at that awkward age. Not old enough for juvenile parts, too tall to pass for younger. Acne had taken hold..." She shook her head. "As usual with child actors, he'd been supporting his family in a lifestyle to which they'd become very accustomed. He'd been 'acting' since he was a baby; never allowed to be a child, really."

"Poor thing!" exclaimed Elsie.

"Yes. I think he just always found his roles to be a better place to be than his own life. And it became a habit. He doesn't know how to just be himself—if there is a himself."

"What is to become of him?" fretted Elsie.

Tears slid down Alice's face. "I don't know. Charlie, in typical male fashion, just assumes that his oldest friend can muddle along and Charles, in typical male fashion, won't admit otherwise."

At last, Elsie felt a shock of her familiar energy. "What are we to do then?"

"I don't know—" Alice repeated. "But perhaps you have an idea?"

"John Bates, do you want to be on my good side?" Elsie asked the playwright. She'd assured that Anna was busy in the kitchen before approaching him.

He smiled at her with a roguish quirk, understanding her meaning immediately. "I don't think it's a matter of want, but of a need to be on your good side."

She harrumped. "This theater troupe of yours—"

"I don't know if I'd go that far as to call it a troupe—"

Going on unheeded, she mused, "It will need actors. An experienced one would be of great help to the younger ones, I would think."

John glanced at Charles Carson, sitting at his table which he usually shared with Elsie. His glass was empty but he remained, refusing all offers for another.

She continued: "You could write a one man show to start—"

He turned in his chair, keeping his gaze fixed the actor across the room. "Go on—"

So she did, telling him Charles Carson's story, for it was an interesting tale under it all, one with a great deal more plot than John's usual work.

She got carried away: "He should wear a cardigan, I think. And flannels. Have a wave in his hair—"

"That would be the director's prerogative," pointed out John, a twinkle in his eye.

Smoothing her skirt, she nodded, properly chastised.

"But I don't have a director," he said suggestively but she only shook her head. Next, he asked, "Has my actor agreed to take the part?"

"I'll go speak to him."

Determined set to her shoulders, Elsie strode across the bar to stand before Charles. He rose, not to leave, but in his politeness. She sat and waved him to sit as well. When she was done laying out her plans for him, he only blinked at her.

"My dear," he said carefully, "servants cannot wed."

"I'm not asking you to marry me, you silly man!" she fumed. "I'm asking you to stay and be a part of this theater troupe of my nephew's."

He blushed. "I—I misunderstood. Pardon me, Mrs. Hughes."

Looking to Alice and Charlie, he still seemed unsure. Then Alice raised her glass to him and nodded. His large hand crept across the table toward Elsie, and even though he wasn't looking at her, she took it and squeezed hard.

"And yes, fine, you can come upstairs with me after closing," she tossed in, still too belligerent to be nice about it.

He tugged at his suit jacket. "I'm not sure that's proper—"

"It's time for your next role, am I right?" His nervousness made her bold. "I think an audition would be in order."

She pushed back from the table.

He stood as well, looming over her before giving one of his bows. "I think that I am perfectly suited for this part."

That's when she noticed that he was speaking with an American accent. Nodding for him to follow, she told him, "I believe the part is a Scots. Highlander. Accent so thick that he can barely be understood, but that's all right. He makes his intentions clear with actions, not words."

He tipped his head, taking in all her direction.

At John's table, she snagged his notebook but kept going.

"Hey, I'm not finished!" John called after her.

"That's fine," she tossed over her shoulder, smiling up at Charles. "I think a certain amount of improvisation will suit this production very well."

He gave a rumble of agreement at the back of his throat but asked her, "My script, please? I need to see who I am this time."

Tucking her arm through his, she led him to the stairs. "Let me tell you all about the role of Charles Carson—"

~ end

E/N: I wish I could take credit for this plot, but I actually cribbed it from Kurt Vonnegut's short story and resulting American Playhouse production, Who Am I This Time? This movie is the reason that Christopher Walken will always be sexy to me, no matter how many psychos he plays.