Once you ruled my mind

I thought you'd always be there

And I'll always hold onto your face

But everything changes in time

And the answers are not always fair

And I hope you've gone to a better place ...

"Cordell," The Cranberries*

Prologue

It's just gone past four in the afternoon, and Downton's housekeeper plops onto her chair with a loud sigh, the busy nature of the events both upstairs and down this week nearly overwhelming her. Her feet ache, and as she slips one shoe off and absentmindedly rubs the bottom of that foot against the toe of the other, massaging away a sore spot, she takes a deep, slow breath and lets it out again. She needs to stop for just a minute, sort her mind's contents in order to move through the rest of her day more efficiently. It's a feeling she often experienced during the war, but of course then everything had been harried, frenetic, and fraught with its own exhaustion … although that was more fear-driven to be sure.

She had hoped to leave that feeling of having to work double-fast behind months ago. And while those endless weeks do in many ways seem so far away now, she knows that her present tiredness is more than valid. Things at Downton are speeding up instead of slowing down as one would have expected following the war, and goodness knows she's not getting any younger.

Her sitting room door creaks open, and she smiles faintly as Beryl Patmore bustles in with a tea tray.

"Thought you might need this," the redheaded woman says, and Elsie notes that her voice is softer, kinder lately. Or maybe that's from age, too, and shared experiences between them, knowledge of how post-war life is and of all the things it can bring.

"Thank you, Mrs. Patmore," Elsie says, waving her hand at the empty chair by her desk when she notes there are two cups and saucers on the tray. She thinks perhaps her friend needs someone to sit with as well, five minutes of peace in a house that's been providing none.

Elsie slips her shoe back on, pushing her heel into place, and her head tilts a bit when she identifies Mrs. Patmore as her 'friend' in her mind.

She wonders when that happened. There's no question about it, though.

"What's that, then?"

Beryl has noticed something, but she sees the housekeeper shake it away with a toss of her head and a soft laugh.

"Oh, don't mind me, Mrs. Patmore," she chuckles, reaching for the proffered cup. She takes a tentative sip, relishing the nearly-scalding heat of the liquid and its restorative properties. "Ahh, this is exactly what I needed. How did you know?"

"A good cuppa solves most of life's problems, doesn't it?" the cook replies, taking her own seat. "Or at least, the small ones …"

"A great many of the big ones are likely solved over the sharing of it as well," Elsie observes. "How's the menu coming along for the wedding?"

She doesn't miss the cook's roll of the eyes.

"Oh, it's fine," Beryl sighs. "Lord knows Miss Swire isn't terribly difficult. I think the challenge is more in getting her to request something, to put her foot down and be a bit demanding. And Mr. Crawley is no help in that regard. He wants her to figure it all out on her own, to allow her to get used to it all, I suppose."

"Well, he's not wrong in his thinking there," Elsie answers. "She's in for some changes, make no mistake. Running a big house like this one day …" Settling back into her seat a bit, she sips the tea again and allows her mind to wander a bit. "Miss Swire," she adds eventually. "Who'd have thought?"

"Who, indeed?" Beryl clicks her tongue softly. "Do you think she has any idea how hard it'll really be, being his wife?"

Elsie looks at her almost sharply. "How do you mean?"

The cook blushes. "Oh, you know … It's not what was meant to happen, now, is it? And now, with poor Mr. Crawley's condition, I mean. After all his Lordship went through with that awful entail business ..."

"That's not our concern, really. None of it." Elsie rests the cup and saucer on her desk and brushes at her skirt, fiddling with a stray piece of lint that's suddenly annoying her. "And they do love one another," she adds quietly.

"Oh, I know," Beryl replies. "Anyone with half a brain can see that. I hope it's enough, though. Sometimes love isn't. Not in their world, anyhow."

Elsie's eyes are far away, staring down at the swirling fabric of her skirts … swirls that are becoming a sea of faces and places and voices … kind eyes, soft and gentle with the offer of a different life, suddenly sad … a small child who'd never be hers, blonde hair and a toothy smile … a sister's letter, opened in a rush as the war raged around them all … a deeper voice, kinder eyes, a brush of fingers across her cheek ...

"Nor ours," she whispers.

"Mrs. Hughes?"

Elsie inhales sharply, startled from her reverie. "Sorry," she mumbles. "Away with the fairies, I suppose."

Beryl, in an unusual turn of events, remains completely silent.

The knock at the door surprises them both, although Elsie is used to its muffled sound after all these years, and she and the cook both rise as Downton's butler enters the room.

"Mr. Barrow. What can I do for you?" Elsie asks.

"Might I have a word, Mrs. Hughes?" he asks, the tone of his voice indicating a hint of unusual concern. "It's rather important."

Elsie turns to Beryl, but the woman already has the tray in hand.

"High time I got back to work," she mumbles, nodding at the butler before heading out.

Thomas closes the door behind her then turns to face his housekeeper, who is now very grateful, indeed, for the fortification brought by the tea.

"What is it?" she asks tentatively. "Is something amiss upstairs?"

"No," Thomas replies. "Not upstairs." A pause. "I think you should sit down, Mrs. Hughes."

Elsie plops back into her chair without question. She sees more in his expression now than just concern, but she isn't sure what all of the feelings he's hiding are. He's a tricky one to read, sometimes, and she's not quite got the knack of it yet. But she knows whatever it is that he's about to drop in her lap is probably going to cause no amount of trouble in the house.

She sighs.

"Well, then," she tells him as he sits across from her. "Best get it out, Mr. Barrow, so that I can get on with my day."

tbc

A/N: This story has given me nothing but trouble in its coming together, and I've not gotten the entire thing written yet at all. So updates will be sporadic after the next chapter, but please be patient, and do let me know what you think. I'm hoping publishing it will be the incentive my brain needs to actually write the rest of it. I'll play around with the canon timeline a bit (notable right away beginning with Chapter 1), but I hope you won't mind.

*Nod to the genius that was Dolores O'Riordan, although as a songfic, each chapter here will begin with lyrics that inspired its events. x