A/N The Christmas Special again showed how much Charles and Elsie care about the staff and about Tom and little Sybbie. And this scene with Charles and the baby and later with Elsie was too cute to be true. Have a fanfic :)
Christmas Special spoilers!
The house was unusually quiet and eerily peaceful as he walked along the gallery, the thick carpet muffling his footfall. He was a ghost in this deserted place, haunting the halls. There were no sounds the walls could reverberate and at some point he felt like an intruder who accidentally got lost in a strange estate, an unknown place, where he could not find his way out. So Charles started to hum a tune while he checked the state of the house. It kept him in the here and now, eased the loneliness away. As much as he sometimes longed for it at busy days with too many tasks to fulfil, today he dreaded it, because he could have avoided it. He had been asked several times to go with them, to leave his duties behind for one day, to simply be Charles instead of Mr Carson.
"You'd enjoy yourself!" she had said, with that pleading and hopeful edge in her voice. Yes, he most definitely would have! It had been years since his last visit to a country fair. The last memory he could recall was from a time when he still was a footman, so much younger, so much more carefree and without all the responsibility he now felt weighing heavily on his shoulders. The responsibility was what had kept him here, had made him reject her offer. The boys would not have had any fun had he accompanied them. First she did not believe him but it had not been an assumption, a long-shot guess, he knew them too well, knew his position too well and remembered his days as a footman. He would have hated it if the butler had come with them all these years ago. He would have spoiled their fun and Charles had proven his point at breakfast the same day.
He walked round another corner, checked the silverware, gleaming from James's and Alfred's polishing earlier, adjusted a silver bowl on a small table that stood in a corner of the gallery. This was his task today, all day, until they returned. Probably laughing and smiling, their heads full of memories and stories to tell. Then the house would be almost back to normal, no longer deserted. They would bring this place back to life again, revive it, give it back the sounds they had taken away with their departure earlier.
Charles had waited until everyone was out through the back door, had lingered in the corridor in front of the open door in case someone returned: to fetch some forgotten hat, bag or a pair of gloves. And there had been this vain hope that she would return, take his arm and simply drag him out without any further comment and not accepting his protest that he really should not go. But she did not do him this favour. She had been the last to leave the house, had smiled at him, said good bye and promised him that she won't stay long.
He took out his pocket watch, wondered how much time had passed and how long "long" actually meant. They had left three hours ago and he had done nothing so far that was worth a story. Instead he passed another door, some more paintings on the wall, all the small things that made this house inhabitable and were so important to him. For the family all these things were decorations, simple objects with no purpose. But Charles thought of them as a proof of people's existence, knew the stories behind a simple painting of a tall ship, or who bought the large vase on that side table. These things characterized the family, made them human, kept them alive even in their absence.
A smile crossed his face when he thought of the many things she kept in her sitting room on too many shelves. Little trinkets, fine pieces of china, pictures, photographs, vases, books. They told him who she was, what she liked even if only to some extent. But it made the sitting room, her room not someone else's. His hand reached out to touch an old oil painting that hung slightly askew. He aligned it with the other paintings. Everything had to be correct, in the right place, like always, like him today. Charles let out a deep sigh, this obviously was his destiny today, keeping everything in order. And this was the place where he was supposed to be. Usually he simply accepted it. But today, the more time passed, the more his thoughts went in the wrong direction, regret started to arise. He had to distract himself once more and started humming again, walked on, tried to ignore everything else until he heard a peculiar noise.
A high-pitched sobbing and crying could be heard from behind a closed door, from the only other human being who was still in the house apart from him and whose existence he had completely forgotten. He stopped in this tracks, listened for a few seconds, hoped she would stop crying, but she continued. In fact, her protest grew louder with every second that passed. Charles hesitated for another brief moment. The last time he had taken care of a toddler was also so far in the past that the memory of it was slightly blurred but a cherished one nonetheless. He wasn't sure if he still knew how to soothe a baby, besides it wasn't his duty to take care of her, they had a nanny.
Sybil had been her favourite, he remembered, she had held the girl when the young lady came downstairs to seek comfort. Elsie believed no one knew about this soft spot she had for this particular member of the family. But of course he had found out soon, kept it a secret for her. He on the other hand had taken care of Lady Mary at any given opportunity, told her stories, gave her biscuits from Mrs Patmore's secret cookie jar and sometimes he even sang to her.
Her cries did not stop and he closed his eyes for a moment, contemplated his options. This child, behind that closed door was not as fortunate as the young ladies of the house. She was motherless. As soon as this word crossed his mind he ignored all propriety and opened the door to the nursery. She was not only Mr. Branson's daughter, she was lady Sybil's little girl. And he would take care of her now. The toddler stood in her bed, tears streaming down her face and she seemed to be as lonely as he was at the moment. What did it matter now that it was not his duty to take care of the child. He had done this before and it was not Sybbies fault that her father did not know his place in society, that he had married an aristocrat. Oh Elsie would berate him had he uttered these thoughts loud and in front of her,
"Hello, what's the matter with you?" his voice was soft now and he tried not to sound intimidating, kept his tone light and a few halftones higher than usual. Sybil did not look at him and continued crying. It melted his heart to see the girl like this and at the same time made him forget who her father was. She had her mother's features, the soft brown hair, the attentive big eyes now red from crying. In fact, the girl looked just like her.
"Where's your nanny… ohhh…" Her little hands reached out for him and he lifted her up from the bed, settled her in his arms. "Let's have a chat about it, eh?" The toddler stopped crying immediately when he bounced her on his hip and soothingly started to pat her back and stroked her small head, She was so fragile in his arms and he suddenly felt this urge to protect her, to take care of her for the rest of the day, or at least until the others returned from the country fair.
"Fancy a walk, little one, mhhh?" Of course she did not answer, only looked at him with those big eyes before she buried her head on his chest. "It's alright. I'm here."
TBC
