I don't own Downton Abbey and I never will own anything pertaining to the show. I'm also not brave enough to tattoo Mrs. Hughes's chatelaine on myself or do anything but write naughty fanfic and post insane fanvids to tumblr, so I really don't think anyone needs to worry about a profit being lifted here.
Following on the heels of Neverwas, this is my second DA fic. I hope that it will be as well-received as Neverwas has been; I am still unsure of whether or not Neverwas was any good at all, so I'll leave that judgement up to you, dear reader.
This story is rated M for 'mature shenanigans' and 'much frivolity'.
Love, Interrupted
by ScintillatingTart
June 2015 –
One:
First Thing's First
August, 1889
He tucked the crocheted afghan around his daughter's shoulders and pressed a kiss to her cheek as she slept. She mumbled something in her sleep, but he murmured that she should stay still and go back to sleep. The last thing that Charles Carson wanted to do was disturb Fiona's rest. He barely saw her as it was, leaving most of her daily care square on his mother's shoulders as she puttered about, ordering the maid staff to do their duty and ensuring that the footmen didn't get fresh with the maids.
Of course, taking care of her granddaughter was a pleasure to her; though Grace Carson Burke would bluster about and say that it was an inconvenience, it was all a façade. Ever since Charles had quit the stage when Alice had died, his home had been here at Downton Abbey with his mother and his very small daughter. Lady Violet had been kind and allowed him to act as valet to Lord Robert, a job he did quite well, if he did say so himself.
And he was near enough to watch Fiona growing up. She was nearly four now, with Alice's wide hazel eyes and easy smile. Unfortunately, she had inherited Charles's nose and height; she would probably outgrow her adorable stage quickly and become quite the ugly duckling by the time she was a young woman.
But he loved her; Lord above, how he adored his darling Fiona.
"Thank you, mother," Charles said softly. "Did she eat well tonight?"
"She's still putting up a fuss about the cabbage," Grace said with a dismissive roll of the eyes. "I don't know why I bother – you were the same way at her age. You refused to eat your turnips."
"Nasty things," Charles muttered under his breath. Truth be told, he would refuse turnips now – if he didn't fear going hungry. "I know I do not share my appreciation often enough for what you do, mother –"
"Don't be ridiculous," Grace huffed, smiling softly. "It's my pleasure, dear heart – you know that. And Lady Violet is quite pleased to have you back at Downton. She believes it to be an even trade. Besides, when she's old enough, Fiona can begin work as a scullery maid."
That gave Charles pause. He'd never thought for a moment about putting his child to work; surely, she should be allowed to just… be? To just be a child, and take pleasure in life's smallest moments… shouldn't she? He had no idea about child-rearing, only that he'd resented being a hallboy at such a young age and was fairly certain that any child of his would likely be the same way. The last thing he wanted was to contemplate Fiona running away already.
"Of course," he said, tone non-committal. "It's getting late, mother. Shouldn't you be off to bed now?"
"Don't scold me," Grace muttered, drawing her son down for a kiss on the cheek. "Sleep well, Charlie – dream of better days and of happy days ahead."
He didn't dare tell her that he would never be happy again without Alice.
January, 1891
The weather was abominable. It had been raining – cold, dismal rain – for several days, but now the wind had taken a sharp turn from the northwest, bringing frigid temperatures off the sea. They were awaiting the arrival of the new head housemaid, but if her train didn't arrive soon, she would likely not arrive at all. The ice on the rails could be quite treacherous after a point.
"Daddy," Fiona cried, bouncing up to Charles as he carefully mended one of Lord Robert's socks, "daddy! Mrs. Oren says it might snow tonight – wouldn't that be nice?"
Charles looked up at her and raised an eyebrow. "Snow brings its share of problems, love," he said in not an unkind way. "It will make it difficult to reach the woodshed to bring in the wood for the fires. It will make it hard for the grocer to bring food deliveries so we may eat."
"But snow is so pretty," Fiona said, her tone caught between understanding and still longing for what she wanted.
"Is she bothering you, Charles?" came the slightly shrill but kind voice of the scullery maid, Beryl Patmore. "Come on, Fiona – your dad's got lots of work to be getting on with. You want to come with me and help bake some biscuits for tea?"
"Oh, yes, please Miss Beryl!" Fiona cried, giving her father a kiss on the cheek, then dashing after Beryl, all long limbs and black pigtails.
Charles watched her go, feeling his heart break all over again. He missed Alice so very much; he missed his mother more. Since her untimely passing a few months before, he had found himself very much alone and trying to raise a young woman that Grace would have been proud of. Instead, he found himself steering her toward Beryl – who his daughter loved fiercely like a sister – and letting her do small tasks in the scullery like his mother had wanted.
If Fiona had been a boy, he would have found an appropriate school to take him on, and he would have been glad of the quiet. But she was a delicate, beautiful girl with a trusting nature and her mother's smile. He could still send her away to school, but it would cost him every penny he would ever make. He only wanted what was best for her, but his inability to make such a plan into a reality would kill him heart and soul.
He finished with the sock and moved on to a shirt cuff.
Things were different at Downton now that Lord Robert had come into the title and taken a wife. He was a bit sterner on the subject of Fiona than Lady Violet and Lord George had been, insisting that she be kept belowstairs and given every chance to be brought up in a life of service. Charles found that he almost wished to send Fiona away to the Dower House just for a bit of peace on the matter.
He was tired of being condemned for being a widower with child. He was sick of being pitied and held to account for not being able to afford better care for his daughter. He wanted nothing more than for Alice not to have taken ill and died with their daughter still suckling her cold breast.
He was still repairing the shirt cuff when he heard a frantic pounding on the door that led outside. Looking around, there was no one but him – and the kitchen maids, who would never be able to open the heavy door on their own. Well, hell. Carefully setting aside his mending, Charles rose to his feet and headed toward the door.
Once it was opened, a very small, slight figure pushed inside past him. The woman was tiny – though not quite as small as Beryl was – and bundled up in a heavy woolen coat and several knitted shawls. She looked to be soaked to the bone, despite her cold-weather gear, and her teeth were chattering. "Elsie Hughes," she introduced weakly. "I'm afraid I'm too frozen to offer you my hand."
It took him a moment to register that the door was still open; he slammed it shut, then helped her to the kitchen where she could warm herself by the roasting fire. "Mrs. Oren, will you see that Miss Hughes gets a hot cuppa?" Charles asked the cook politely. "I've got to finish my mending –"
"Daddy, will you be downstairs for tea?" Fiona asked anxiously. "We're making shortbread biscuits –"
"Shortbread is my favorite," the small, cold woman spoke up.
Charles shook his finger warningly at his offspring. "Don't you dare start with Miss Hughes," he said sternly. "You keep to Beryl and the other kitchen maids, Fiona Carson."
Fiona swallowed with a little gulping noise. "Yes, daddy," she said very quietly. "I'm sorry – I didn't mean to make you cross…"
"Never you mind," Charles sighed, giving her a gentle kiss on the forehead. "I've got to finish my work, love. Behave and help Mrs. Oren and Beryl, please."
"Yes, daddy," Fiona said, nodding. He took his leave of the room, knowing that if his daughter became friends with one of the upstairs maids, god help them all – at least she would learn useful skills as a kitchen maid.
It took nearly an hour for Elsie to feel her fingers again. The walk itself from the train depot had not been awful – not until the heavens had opened up and showered her with icy pellets mixed with rain. Despite her careful preparations, the last thirty minutes of her walk had been absolutely miserable and she had barely been able to close her gloved hand into a fist to pound upon the door.
Being as cold and exhausted as she had been, she had not really paid attention to her rescuer, the man who had opened the door and allowed her to come inside and warm herself. She had been so eager to toast by the fire that the only thing she knew about the man was that he had a daughter, and that that daughter was baking shortbread biscuits with one of the kitchen maids.
She watched the raven-haired little girl with the ginger maid as they set about their task. Elsie warmed her hands with a mug of hot coffee that Mrs. Oren had provided her – not tea as had been requested. A steaming bowl of soup and a chunk of fresh bread soon joined the mug on the small table by the fire.
"So you're the new head housemaid," Mrs. Oren said, a steely look in her eyes. "You don't look like much, and you sound like less."
"I wasn't aware that being Scottish was a crime," Elsie protested softly. "And I cannot be what I am not, Mrs. Oren."
"Are you from Scotland?" the young lass asked with a smile. "My mummy was from there – her name was Alice."
"Aye, I am," Elsie said with a small smile in return. "My name is Elsie – what's yours, lass?"
"Fiona," the girl replied with a giggle. "Do you want to help Beryl and me make biscuits, Elsie?"
"No, she does not, Fiona," came a sharp barking voice from the doorway. "Miss Hughes, I will show you to your room right away. I am Mrs. Potter, the housekeeper –"
Beryl muttered, "A piss-poor one."
Mrs. Potter rounded on the ginger woman and nearly shouted, "Dare I remind you that I am in charge of whether or not you are promoted to assistant cook, you ungrateful whelp?"
"She didn't mean it, Mrs. Potter," Fiona jumped in, standing between the two women. "Did you, Beryl?"
Elsie watched the belligerence leave Beryl's face in an instant when she realized that the little girl was really the one who was in the most danger right then. "I didn't – you know me, Mrs. Potter, always running my mouth at both ends," Beryl said with a frown on her lips. "Come on, pet – let's finish those biscuits, and then go read a story."
Elsie finished her bread and coffee, then rose to her feet and grabbed her valise. "Mrs. Potter, I would be grateful to see my room and unpack," she said quietly, hoping to deflect any other poor attention from the others in the room. "Mainly so I can get into dry clothes."
"Your uniform will be waiting upstairs, and you will dress and participate in the afternoon cleaning of the west wing," Mrs. Potter said in a haughty, angry tone. "You've already wasted a good amount of time sitting here."
"But Sophie, she was nearly frozen through," Mrs. Oren protested. "If Charles hadn't helped her inside, she might have frozen on the lawn –"
"And as long as she's in His Lordship's employ, Miss Hughes will work," Mrs. Potter growled.
Elsie found that she really didn't care for Mrs. Potter at all. Not one bit. She was almost a deal-breaker. But she had come all this way and she might as well give it her best attempt.
She raised her chin and met Mrs. Potter's disapproving glare with a small smile.
Two could play this game.
END PART ONE
