A/N: This is an angst-ridden start - don't shoot me.

Undying gratitude for beta work by silhouettedswallow.

This one is ... going to be interesting. Here you go, theladychelsieofdownton! Part one.

If you like a music selection, "Say Something" works for the first five chapters of this fic.

xx

CSotA

The sound of the ringing telephone floated down the corridor to Elsie Hughes's ears, but she was so focused on her receipts – balanced figures being her forte, of course – that she didn't pay it much attention. There was too much work to finish up before the family returned from London; her girls had already been dispatched to do a last-minute dusting of the library and the family's bedrooms and to open the windows and let in the fresh air. She knew the footmen would be at the ready when the cars pulled up with a seemingly endless amount of luggage. She was looking forward to seeing Mr. Carson, of course, and to catching up on anything interesting that had happened in London since her own return last week. She had appreciated the rare opportunity to spend the Season with the family – with him – and the trip to the beach had capped off a wonderful Season in a way that was, well … glorious, really.

Making her final scratchings in the ledger – DONE! – she turned her thoughts to the day ahead: the directions that would need to be given, the standing at attention as the family cars pulled up in front of the Abbey, and, God willing, the wine that would be had that evening in the butler's pantry. She'd only a few more hours to go before the return to normalcy – or what passed for it at Downton, at any rate; Mr. Barrow's voice placing another call didn't register until she was halfway up the servants' stairs. Who could he be telephoning if the family were already preparing to leave London?

oOoOoOoOoOo

Mr. Barrow cradled the receiver and headed off to find Mr. Branson in order to deliver the shocking news. It wasn't a task he was particularly looking forward to, he realized. It was one thing to keep the staff on the back foot, and he certainly couldn't wait for old Carson to retire, but this wasn't something that even Thomas would have hoped for. One thought kept pushing itself to the forefront of his mind: telling Mr. Branson would be difficult, but it would be leagues better than telling her. Perhaps luck would be on his side and she'd just figure it out telepathically, the way she always seemed to learn about what was happening in the Abbey. No, he thought, you've never been that lucky, Thomas.

oOoOoOoOoO

After checking that the bedrooms were all satisfactory, Elsie headed across the great hall, intent on checking the library. She almost fell as Tom Branson went flying past her, and she spared a moment to wonder if he'd even spotted her there at all. But when, seconds later, Mr. Branson dashed into the library, only to exit once again with Lady Mary now in tow … well, then she was outright worried. She watched as the two of them jumped into a waiting vehicle and drove away in a cloud of dust.

Somehow, she had a feeling that the family wouldn't be arriving this afternoon after all. Sighing, she turned abruptly back toward the door to servants' stairway, not even remotely startled to see Mr. Barrow pass through it, heading directly for her, his ashen face telling her that something awful had happened. She read something in his eyes and reached out for the side table, suddenly needing to hold herself up as a sneaking suspicion of what was to come filtered through her mind.

oOoOoOoOoOo

The family returned just before tea the following afternoon, although to Elsie it seemed as if it had been weeks since she'd seen the estate manager and eldest Grantham daughter tear away from the house at breakneck speed. She didn't think she'd ever forget that sight as long as she lived, but it was truly her conversation with Mr. Barrow, the words of which were packed with the all of the facts that they didn't have, that had been the beginning of her undoing.

"Milord, Milady, welcome home," Mr. Barrow uttered. Elsie stood by his side, unable to speak for fear of breaking down in front of the entire staff. Not quite the entire staff though, is it? She simply nodded to Lord and Lady Grantham as they exited the automobile. To her credit, Lady Grantham found Elsie's eyes immediately, sending her a nod of her own and what appeared to be something of a sympathetic glance. Lady Mary and Tom Branson followed in the second car. Elsie heard a far-away voice directing the footmen to start gathering the valises from the back of the vehicles; it took seeing them react and hearing their responses for it to register that she'd been the one to give the order. She headed around the building at a quick clip, her heels clicking on the gravel and giving off a much-too-loud crunching sound. It was time to rally her feelings, rein in her emotions, and redirect her fears – time to take charge of not only her girls but his footmen and, heaven help her, Mr. Barrow. As the senior-most staff member for the foreseeable future, it would be up to her to see that everything happened flawlessly in Mr. Carson's absence. One thing was certain: he wouldn't be returning to the Abbey for quite a while, and that thought alone would nearly override all the reassurances she'd receive in the upcoming days, from those both upstairs and down.

oOoOoOoOoOo

Their cases unpacked, the family had chosen to take trays in their rooms instead of having the staff serve a formal dinner. After she'd finished eating, Cora sent for her housekeeper.

"I believe we have everything in hand, Milady," Elsie said, wishing fervently that she had more household business to discuss at that moment but knowing that wasn't the real reason she'd been sent for anyhow.

"Very good, Mrs. Hughes." Cora paused a moment as she considered the woman who stood before her, then continued, "His Lordship and I will be heading back to London tomorrow afternoon to see if we can get any actual information. We'll inform you as soon as possible if there is anything at all that's new. I'm sure the staff are all terribly worried about Mr. Carson … as are we," Cora said.

"I appreciate that, Milady."

"Such a tragedy," Cora continued, her words arriving in a hush to Elsie's ears. "All of those people, headed home or on holiday, not knowing what was in store …" Her voice died away, a fact for which Elsie was eternally grateful.

"Yes," the housekeeper said in a barely-controlled voice. "Will there be anything else for the moment, Milady?"

Cora looked up, the housekeeper's voice having snapped her out of her own memories, her own nightmares, and gave a sad smile. "No, Mrs. Hughes, thank you. I'll be sure to update you tomorrow as soon as we know anything concrete."

"Very good, Milady."

It was all Elsie could do not to bolt from the room, but years' worth of training in covering up emotion served her well. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her breath was coming in short spurts, and she recognized an unfamiliar feeling buried deep within, one that threatened to erupt out of her as soon as she let her guard down.

Terror.

oOoOoOoOoOo

The following afternoon, Robert and Cora rode silently the entire way to London, occasionally glancing at a newspaper or magazine, pretending as though they could concentrate on something other than the events that had recently transpired. Robert played that fateful telephone call from Mr. Barrow over and over in his mind, as if committing it to memory would in some way change the events that had taken place …

"Your Lordship," came Mr. Barrow's voice over the phone. "There's been an accident."

"Barrow? What do you mean, 'there's been an accident?' At Downton?"

"No, Milord, a train accident. Mr. Carson's train …" He let the words hang for a moment, trying to form the next few sentences as succinctly as possible.

"CARSON'S train? Oh, my God … but where? When? He's only just left a couple of hours ago …" his voice trailed off, the shock of the situation setting in.

"The authorities just telephoned, Milord. The only information they could give me was to say that the train derailed just as it exited London. There were … fatalities, Milord, a great many of them. They saw Mr. Carson's name and address on his trunk tags as they were going through the cars, and they telephoned at once."

"So they didn't know if …" Robert couldn't even bear to finish the sentence, never realizing that his quiet, gasping voice was beginning to frighten his under-butler, the man who'd suddenly been thrust into a position of authority that he was not ready to assume.

"No, Milord. But they said you could visit the hospital where the … survivors … are being brought. Presumably he was carrying something on his person in the way of identification should he, well, be unconscious. They think that someone there may be able to help you."

"Thank you, Barrow. I'll leave immediately. Please prepare the staff for a later arrival, tomorrow at the very earliest. Clearly the trains will not be running this evening. And, Barrow? Please inform Mr. Branson at once."

"Very good, Milord."

As the train slowed down to approach the London station, Robert sent up a prayer of thanks that when he'd phoned the hospital after speaking with Barrow he'd at least been able to learn that Carson was, indeed, alive.

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