Spoiler Alert/Timing Note: An hour or so after Anna was taken away from Grantham House in S5ep8.
A/N: this was written a few minutes ago (as a Happy 1 Final Down, 3 more to Go gift). I apologize for any glaring errors.
Elsie Hughes sat working away, shoulders tensely raised towards her ears. Settling the accounts before returning to Downton was a considerable task, regardless of how long the family stayed in London. But the way she angled herself towards her desk – attacking the stack of paper with desperation, clinging to the worn surface, was what drew Charles Carson to a halt.
She worked away without noticing his figure looming in the crack of her partially-opened door. He kept silent watch as she continued on in her London sitting room. It wasn't hers quite yet – it lacked the full extent of her personal touches. But the flowers, arranged in a small vase and sitting on the window sill, were a staple of any room that could be attributed to Elsie Hughes. They filled air with a clean, unassuming fragrance. It pervaded his senses – the flowers and her unmistakable scent, and he felt at home and homesick. But for the unfinished business that would loom over the family like a dark cloud, he welcomed their return to Downton. The work involved would keep his thoughts away from the unthinkable yet obvious fact – Anna was in jail.
Elsie Hughes hunched forward, as much as one in a corset could be hunched, trying desperately to instill order amongst the many household receipts that needed to be sorted in her accounting book. She dared not close her eyes as visions of a terrified wisp of a woman took over her brain. Her bairn – as much as any of her charges could be her child – her Anna. She daren't look out the window – visions of her girl, walking with a shaken and shocked stare – would only dominate her mind's eye. Elsie Hughes – caregiver of downstairs – had nothing left in her to console the frightened, shocked staff after Anna departed and the Crawley family trudged back upstairs.
She could not face a soul willingly. And so she departed to her receipts and ledgers, almost hoping the work would keep her busy through the entire night.
Charles Carson had seen her retreat uncharacteristically after John Bates finally went upstairs. There was nothing to be done until the morning, save for one more prayer on his lips before he turned over in his narrow bed and fell asleep that night. Mr. Murray would see to it the best that he could – that's all there was to it, for now.
He shooed the staff upstairs, pressing upon them the importance of waking early and ensuring the trip home to Downton would occur without a hitch. More than the memorial service that awaited them upon their return, he wanted everything to run smoothly as possible – for her.
It was a small repayment for the many ways she did exactly the same for him – whether he was sick, understaffed, or merely terse. Elsie Hughes seemed to know nearly everything he ever thought – sometimes before he managed to identify the very idear being developed. It was uncanny. It was maddening. It was comforting. And it was almost unthinkable that there were moments he could catch her off guard.
But the Elsie Hughes that knew his barely-formed thoughts kept hers hidden away. As much as his past behavior and their highly-regimented lives forced him to speak in the language of investment properties, of being in agreement, he felt there was no alternative when it came to Elsie Hughes. Even though she increasingly regarded him with warmth and feistiness and fondness, it was as much as result of time as anything else. Those things, formerly hinted at on the cusp of life-changing moments, were given after their partnership and friendship deepened over the years. But still, she kept things at bay now.
He had watched her alter each time Sergeant Willis and Inspector Vyner invaded the house with their presence and accusations. It was her eyes – clouded, haunted. He figured as much when her eyes remained weary after they volleyed unspoken thoughts between them as Sergeant Willis questioned them about Anna's whereabouts.
Most of the secrets she kept – for others to avoid his wrath – flowed like water under a bridge. But a thicket had formed some time ago in those waters. Logs of large and larger secrets no doubt lodged themselves beneath the bridge, making the flow slow to a trickle. An effective dam had begun to form – pressure building, tension rising, just as her shoulders crept higher as she worked.
He had seen her tensely observe Vyner needle away at Anna while they were holed up in his Downton pantry on opposite ends of the room. She had rocked on the balls of her feet, just as she did when engaged in uneasy battle with him over the unfortunate Charlie Grigg and his turn in the workhouse. As Vyner and Willis pressed on, butler and housekeeper remained outside the fray, providing silent support for their bairns – Anna and John. But before either of them knew it was coming, the revelation of Green's rapacious past was revealed.
Her cryptic comments to Anna following the uneasy audience demanded an explanation, an explanation she did not provide. There wasn't time to question, and he knew, after decades of experience, that she would come to him in time if his intervention was needed.
But things were changing between them. How difficult, but how right it ultimately felt to share his thoughts – about the memorial, about his fears about the world. And so he wished she would seek him out for his counsel and support. But his past actions haunted him.
He would bite his tongue if she wobbled. He would dig his clipped nails into his thigh before he said anything harsh about her abundant concern for one of their dearest charges. Her love of Anna went beyond mere sentimentality, of that he was increasingly sure as he watched her struggle with her work.
He had taken some solace in her assurances before one of the dinners in London that Anna and Bates were innocent – before God and the law. It was her word and he would cling to it.
But her silence now was disquieting. Her withdrawal from duties that showcased her true talent with people was highly uncharacteristic. But her obvious determination to sort through outstanding business with the house accounts was not. She would work at her books until they were finished, that much was clear.
What he could do was help her in his own way. He went to work.
She heard the door close shut as he moved silently behind her. Before she knew it, he adjusted the wooden chair sitting in the corner next to her desk. She looked sharply to her left as he committed his invasive act, unsure why he turned the chair to mirror her own seat before her writing desk. Still he was silent as he elegantly lowered himself onto the small chair. It was clear he never used it to share nightcaps with Mrs. Bute, at least in this room – he never would have stood for the chair's diminutive size for that many years.
But for the ticking of the small clock on her desk, silence still pervaded the room as she turned back to her books.
Elsie Hughes expected an innocuous conversation that included a reminder of when they would need to leave to catch the train. Perhaps he would provide an update about Mr. Bates or even Lady Mary. He would speak with a low, graveled voice in hushed tones. His concern would pervade his warm voice and she would struggle to fight against the urge to tell him – tell him everything that Anna had hoped keep secret from the world.
What she did not expect was for him to sit next to her, silently, without a word shared or a throat cleared. Still, she worked, making notes in the margins before finalizing a total for what was owed to one of the London merchants.
His right knee was less than six inches away from her left. His hand splayed out against his thigh. She could feel his gaze graze across her profile. Too afraid to turn, to see his eyes etched with concern, she took to double-checking her calculations in the margin of her books. But when he finally drew a swift, shallow breath, she could feel he had reached some sort of decision. She tensed, dreading the words that would tumble from his mouth.
But those words never came.
Slowly, elegantly, he lifted his right hand, slicing through the cold night air. Twisting as it rose above her desk before his knuckles came to rest gently on the worn surface.
Instinctively, the well-read man knew no words would suffice for what just happened to their Anna. He knew no question that would compel Elsie Hughes to provide the answers she may not be able to give. And so he kept his words at bay. But still he spoke – with his actions.
Slowly, his fingers unclenched, spreading out against the small space of her writing desk and brushing against a stack of invoices. But he did not invade her space, not intentionally.
Even though she never stopped working, he knew she registered his silent offer – to steady the most capable woman he had ever known.
Still she worked, her sleeve nearly brushing his as she leaned more heavily onto the desk.
And still, his hand remained unfurled – waiting steadfastly for her to play her own hand if she so dared.
He could practically hear the wheels turning in her mind as she pushed herself slightly away from the desk and lifted her left forearm.
He feared for the worst in that split-second, thinking he miscalculated what lay hidden behind the dam composed of all the other secrets she kept. Her eyes squinted and she leaned forward towards her books. In that moment, he thought all was lost.
But as her small hand – gentle, strong – finally lifted from the desk, he held his breath in agonized anticipation. His breath hitched slightly as her fingers treaded softly along his palm, reaching until she could wrap her fingers around it. They looked so small against his large palm, but they looked at home as his long, elegant fingers flexed to gently but surely close around her hand.
Deep breaths mingled in the still air as their pulses vibrated life through their clasped hands. And in those moments, his outstretched hand steadied her – helped to decrease the pressure building behind the dam of secrets.
Finally, Elsie Hughes halted her work. Closing her eyes, she could see without fear. She was not surprised that Anna's forlorn face didn't dominate the darkness. A bright scene of sand and sea did instead.
Her cleansing breaths came in waves as her shoulders finally began to relax. A few more moments passed as she dared to keep her eyes shut before reality began to seep back in to her closed lids.
Hardly able to continue working while clinging to the offered hand of Charles Carson, she squeezed his hand gently before stretching her hand and slipping it away from his warm embrace. She continued working with a faint smile on her face.
Sighing silently, Charles Carson rose and departed her room with the door standing wide open.
She breathed deeply as he departed. The oppressive weight of Anna's secret and reality still lingered. But without a word shared, the burden had lightened however slightly. Charles Carson was not a man of many words when it came to sharing emotion. She was grateful for that fact as the night pressed on. She could face the waiting darkness now, she thought. But still, she kept working.
To her surprise, he returned a few minutes later. But she continued undeterred without a word. China faintly clattered together as he set down a small tray of tea and biscuits before closing the door once more. Then he set down a perfect cuppa next to her right hand before shifting back to her left.
She did not expect what happened next.
Charles Carson, the dignified great bear of a man that he was, had pulled up a side table and opened up the ledgers he brought from his office. He intended to work by her side – literally–until they both could work no longer that night. It was a ridiculous sight – her commanding a rather large desk in comparison while he bent over his makeshift worktable.
He shuffled about for a bit, clearly unprepared for his endeavor. But still, he kept at it. After nearly dropping his pen between her and his makeshift desks, he looked sharply upon hearing her exhale in exasperation.
Finally, their eyes locked.
Her orbs were no longer clouded with the agony that overtook them as Anna was led away. Instead, they twinkled faintly with bittersweet fondness for the man who looked back at her. His eyes were wide – warm yet challenging, filled with endearing determination to work by her side. His eyes and lips brokered no argument. Despite the ridiculous sight he made, she remained silent, happily resigned to his trespass. A smile exchanged, she shook her head slightly. Returning to her work, she sipped generously on her tea.
Still not a word was shared, and still their minds aligned. They carried on as best they knew how. Rustling paper and pens pressed to parchment were the only other sounds that echoed through the small room as the clocked ticked towards daybreak.
Together, but a part, silent but communicating, they worked through the night. They stood down the fading darkness together, keeping the waiting nightmares at bay. Their hands didn't touch again that night, even as the growing sunrise cast an ethereal light about the room.
They found solace not in spoken words or intertwined fingers. What they shared – spoken or otherwise – transcended the mere brushing of hands. What they shared went beyond words that would inadequately fill the air. The words would come when they needed them, or so they silently prayed.
Until then, they faced another day by gaining strength through the mere presence of one another.
Just as they always did. Just as it always could be.
Rusty Alert: I haven't written DA/Chelsie in a month, so forgive me - for this, and for not updating Calm in a while.
If you care to share your thoughts, I would love to read them.