s6 speculation on spoilers from (probably) s1. If you don't want that, well... here's your warning.
"Might I have a word, Mr Carson?"
It's unusual that Mrs Patmore should join them for sherry, but not unheard of.
"Of course," he intones, attempting to steer them toward Mrs Hughes's sitting room as usual. Oddly, the door is closed. Even stranger is the fact that Mrs Patmore has just put her hand on his arm and jerked her head toward his pantry instead.
With a mental sigh, he changes course to follow her. By the time closes the door, he's really wondering what this is about.
And on top of all that, there's her singular expression — determination and nerves all in one.
Mrs Patmore wishes she'd taken his silent invitation to sit, but she was too flustered to accept when it was offered and now it feels a bit too late.
She was full of steam whilst discussing this in Mrs Hughes's room, not six hours ago. Granted, she was a bit shocked at first — the cook and the housekeeper certainly weren't used to having to consider such things, after all. And at their age! But once she understood how very worried Mrs Hughes was, and why she was so worried … well. Yes, the topic was uncomfortable but by heck, she'll help her sort out this silliness. How could the woman think he wouldn't want her? Or that he would have demands and then somehow reject her? It's preposterous.
Poor thing.
But now they're both just standing there awkwardly as she searches for the right words and he wonders how on earth Mrs Hughes could possibly be uncertain of him.
"Well, she…" Mrs Patmore bounces on her heels, once, before admonishing herself not to show her nerves like that. It feels so childish. But no time for that now, she tells herself, and presses on.
"She doesn't quite know, er, how you feel, Mr Carson." Come on, Beryl, you can do better than that, she chides herself. Remember how that poor woman looked at you. She presses on. "I think she'd like to know... what you're after... I suppose?"
He is beginning to look a bit alarmed. She winces; this is not coming out right at all.
"I mean, that is, she's worried about what you might expect."
Amazing, Carson, he thinks wildly, imagine if anyone else in the world asked you this.
It would have been the most impertinent question imaginable. But he can't find it in himself to be indignant. Not at Mrs Patmore — because of the monument business, for one, but also because this is just too serious to get blustery about.
And even if he were able to muster his usual response, it would only be for show, to cover his utter confusion. He just would never have expected Mrs Hughes to be so uncertain. And then to send Mrs Patmore to ask? It feels like schoolyard stuff, sending a friend ahead to ask him if he's keen.
She must really be shaken, he realizes, but how could she not know? He adores her. It's the most obvious thing in the world.
He couldn't hold back his tears when she accepted him. And that was alright, because he trusts her. Oh dear Lord, now that thought has him welling up again, and with Mrs Patmore sitting right there — another deep breath and he's got it under control. Mostly. Somehow none of this is actually very embarrassing to him; his heart is so loudly emblazoned on his sleeve at this stage that he's past trying to hide it.
So she's come to ask him about his intentions. Alright, then, he'll give it a go.
He takes a shaky breath and opens his mouth — and out falls the truth, more calmly and quietly than he would ever have expected.
"I love her, Mrs Patmore."
She almost gasps at that; old Charlie's never been one to declare himself so openly, but by God, he's done it.
He's surprised himself as well. Something unfurls in his chest. He's never found it easy to speak his heart and his speech is halting, but now the words won't stop, and with every one that comes out of his mouth, he feels lighter.
"I am... happy and tickled and — bursting with pride that she would agree to be my wife."
By this point he feels as if he might float out of his shoes. It's too much, and finally he realizes he's been frozen in place and it's time to sit down already. He gestures to a chair for Mrs Patmore and they both take a seat.
He looks away, thinking he might be able to answer the rest of the question if he's very careful.
He wants her.
He wants to lie down with her in his arms. Sleep in the same bed. Bury his nose in her hair, wake up with her every morning.
He wishes he could wrap the two of them up in a cocoon of time and let the rest of the world change if it must. Just please, he silently asks without the words to do so, please just allow me this, don't make me brave it alone.
As to the other… well.
Of course he's thought about it. He'd be lying if he claimed otherwise. He has indeed imagined it — what will it feel like to touch her skin her hair her lips how will it be to lie down together with her will she allow me to —and he always stops himself there. He no longer knows how many times he's admonished himself for undressing her in his mind.
A hundred times he's shouted at himself about how very indecent it is to intrude on her privacy that way.
Ah, but is it an intrusion? He's never once touched her hair, her face, anything other than her hands, really. He's felt her close to him in desperate times — when tragedy and disease have struck their little world — but always through many layers of clothing. He's never touched her corseted waist (or uncorseted, but then he gives himself a mental slap in the face and busies himself with some household task instead).
Her hair. He's never seen it down. It seems likely that he will. He's seen her in her dressing gown, yes, but will she let him wrap his arms around her and press her against him?
What does she want? If she wants anything, that is. Does she?
Images dart through his mind, of her flushed and smiling with her hair spread out on the pillow. Her bare shoulders. He hardly dares imagine anything further.
Mrs Patmore is watching him now, her lips pursed in a little smile and her eyebrows in a tiny vicarious lovelorn frown and her eyes big. He doesn't see her; he doesn't notice her tears starting to form, because he's carefully composing something not-too-risqué in his head. He's not entirely sure he's understood her question, and he certainly wouldn't want to presume anything, so he answers
"And I want us to live as closely as two people can, for…" his voice is shaking again, damn it; he's trying to get this out without falling apart — "...for the time that remains to us on earth."
He looks back at Mrs Patmore. She's been sitting there holding her breath, and at the end of his sentence of it she looks away, breathing out forcefully and raising her eyebrows, in — surely not in surprise; it can't be. Shock? He hopes he's not offended her.
She looks back up at him and gives him what looks like a sad smile. But — no, he knows her better than that: that smile is small but indulgent, the one he thought he caught that day when she put him out of his misery, assuring him that Mrs Hughes would be fine. Yes, that's a nice smile. A very nice one indeed.
But how on earth could Mrs Hughes — Elsie, sometimes he calls her Elsie in his mind, but never out loud, no, never in front of the others— How could she doubt him?
Unless…
Unless she… wants. Something else.
No.
Oh God, no.
No.
No no no. If she's only said yes out of a wish for companionship, or (no, Charlie, no, don't think it) for financial security, oh. No, please. No.
It doesn't seem at all like her to take advantage. She's worked her whole life to support her sister and herself —
Precisely, a little voice inside him whispers. She'd like a bit of a rest, wouldn't she? It's perfectly justified. She's worked so hard and so long; you wouldn't begrudge her that, would you?
His heart is breaking but he has to know. He's desperate to keep his dream afloat, but it will be no use if she doesn't want what he wants. He steels himself and poses the question in a shaking voice.
"Mrs Patmore, I feel I must ask in return — can you tell me what Mrs Hughes's, ahem, expectations are?"
She's a bit taken aback at his sudden change of mood. He seems so pained. Surely he doesn't doubt Mrs Hughes's feelings —
She takes a deep breath to protest and then stops herself, shutting her mouth because actually... she doesn't know. Mrs Hughes made her way through their whole conversation without quite tipping her hand.
She would never have doubted it, but now his uncertainty has infected her and she isn't about to speak on behalf of Mrs Hughes without knowing exactly what she's saying.
"I'm sure she cares very much for you, Mr Carson…"
He sees right through her, and oh, but he looks devastated.
She looks up and sees the pain in his face, oh good Lord, these two! How could she not say?
He looks miserable, so she leans across and takes his hand in hers, much like he did for her those many years ago. He startles and looks up at her, so wrapped up in his own whirling sadness and confusion that he seems to have forgotten she was there.
"She didn't say, Mr Carson, not exactly, but I'll find out for you."
He can only nod, his lips in a tight line as he tries to contain the fear (sorrow heartbreak anger desperation all of it) —
She gives his hands a squeeze and he looks back at her.
"I don't think she'd be as worried as she is if she didn't feel something for you, Charlie."
He looks up at her in surprise when she uses that name, and she raises her eyebrows and gives him what's meant to be a comforting nod.
He pulls one hand away from hers to cover his face and she lets go of the other.
"I'll leave you in peace," she says as gently as she can. "Unless... do you want me to stay?"
"No... No, that's alright."
"I'll just..." She gestures toward the door.
"Thank you," he manages.
She reaches for his shoulder, hesitates, and then she does touch him, a sisterly pat over thick layers of cloth. After she's left and closed the door behind her, he sits thinking for long minutes, staring off at nothing.
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