Chapter 1 – A Cuppa Warm Milk

Late Spring, 1920

She rolled over on her other side, shifted her pillow. Settled her head back down, inhaling in the familiar smell of the bedding, of her sheets, of herself, in her narrow spinster's bed. Sleep had never been a problem for her; far from it. Whether it as a young lass on the family farm or as a middle-aged housekeeper at Downton, her days were so long, so laborious, sleep usually pulled her into its darkness with something akin more to an ambush than an embrace.

Even in the past few months, after Dr. Clarkson had…had taken a piece of something out of her, sent it off to be tested and prodded and examined and lord-knows-what-else, and ruled good, bad or indifferent, she'd usually been able to drift off, eventually, into a fitful sleep peppered with bad dreams. Dreams that turned to dark wisps in the corners of her mind once she'd awoken, haunted but partially restored.

And then, not three days ago: the news of that something. That it was, in essence, nothing. Nothing worth worrying over, or being distracted by, anymore. Since her appointment with Dr. Clarkson on Monday afternoon, her life seemed to be regaining a semblance of normality, by the retreat of certain things:

Her anger, which, recently, always seemed to be lurking just under the surface, ready to bite, had receded, like the tide going out.

Beryl Patmore, good woman, good friend that she was, was no longer fussing over her, as if she were a wee babe in a pram, in the need of a bottle or a nappy change.

And, of course, the steady smoothing out of a certain crease, a fold of skin, between the bushy but still rather fetching eyebrows of a certain butler she happened to know.

But, in addition to the slow waning of these things, which she relished, another was added to the list, far less welcome: her ability to sleep, dreamlessly, soundly, as she had nearly all of her life.

She sat up, sighed heavily. Slapped her warm pillow in frustration. Debated briefly, then stood up, pulled her dressing gown on. She picked up the small clock on her nightstand, squinted at it in the near-dark. Just about half-past three in the morning.

Lovely.

A cuppa warm milk'll fix you just right, Elsie me lass, her mother's voice, a warm, ghostly whisper in her mind. Drum up some sherry or some other sort, and ye'll be about set. She closed one hand over her chatelaine, rested the other on the doorknob. She wasn't one to roam the house after hours, though her keys made her one of the few staff members able to so freely. Though she was sure, over the years, some housemaid or another (and another and another) had let one of her compatriots back into the sleeping quarters, at an arranged time, both whispering feverishly about some dalliance or assignation that had taken place in the purple, hushed hours of the night.

Nae, she wasn't the sort of woman to break the rules for breaking's sake. Bend them, perhaps, when needed, for the sake of humanity or practicality or – heaven forfend – democracy. But, she grinned a little to herself, her heart pounding strongly in her healthy body, she suppose there was a time and place for it. If only to make herself a simple concoction to recapture the last few hours' of sleep the night held.

She moved quietly through the women's sleeping quarters, down the back stairs, towards the kitchen, a small figure in a pink dressing gown, sable-colored braid over one shoulder.

The sleeping walls and darkened halls of Downton didn't seem to mind, in the least.

oooOOOooo

There was already a light on in the kitchen.

There was already someone there, fully dressed, humming to herself. Boiling eggs, looked like, and grilling toast.

"Mrs. Patmore?" Elsie whispered, trying not to startle her.

"Good lord, I think I just lost five years off meh life, Mrs. Hughes," the cook spun around, gasping, clutching her hand to her chest.

"Goodness, I'm sorry, truly I am, Mrs. Patmore. I wasn't of the mind to scare you," she replied, but then she couldn't help herself: laughter burbled up in her chest, and she clapped her hands over her mouth to stem the flow of mirth pouring out of her. The cook stood there, one hand still grabbing the fabric at her throat the other on her hip, a look of consternation creasing her face. Then she, too, began giggling.

They stood there for a few moments, each trying to calm herself. But then she'd catch the cook's eye, and off they'd go again. Elsie finally felt the laughter dry up, though by the time it did, her stomach and cheek muscles ached from their efforts.

"Mrs. Hughes, I usually try to mind meself, but what are you doin' down in the kitchen, not gone four in the morning?" Beryl Patmore wiped her eyes dry on her apron hem.

"I got tired of not being tired, I suppose, Mrs. Patmore," Elsie shrugged, now slightly embarrassed. Especially given that the other woman was fully dressed, and she still in her dressing gown, hair partially undone.

"I understand that feeling well," Beryl shook her head. "I've never been a good one for sleep, though hard work'll knock a body out soon well enough most days. But for the past dozen years, at least, once or twice a month, I'm puttering around down here, hours afore dawn."

Elsie was nonplussed. She'd no idea that the cook had spent not one, or two, but likely dozens of sleepless nights in this kitchen, on her own.

"Yeh not put out, are yeh, Mrs. Hughes?"

"Not in the least, Mrs. Patmore…I suppose I'm thinking on how long our days already are, and here you are, adding more to them," she shook her head.

"Ah, I'm used to these nights, now that I understand they're comin' for me every now and again," the cook grinned ruefully. "But you, Mrs. Hughes. I've nawt seen you down here before. Can I get you something?"

"That's good of you to ask, Mrs. Patmore. I was going to fix myself a cup of warm milk, which my Mam always said was the best cure for sleeplessness, if it ever struck," she shrugged a little, and saw the cook moving towards the ice box. "But I'll not have you doing it for me, now, I insist."

"Quit yer fussin'," the cook admonished almost absentmindedly, and before Elsie could quite make out what was happening, there was a small saucepan of warm milk, spices and likely something stronger warming on the stovetop. "I'll eat my eggs, then, whilst that heats up."

"Well, I thank you," she almost added "Beryl", as she had a few days before, when her friend had pulled her away from the prying eyes of all and sundry in the village as she broke into sobs, when it finally had hit her, hurrying away from Dr. Clarkson's: she was a healthy woman. But she held back; here, now, in the middle of the night, they could carry on like school girls, giggling. However, there was and always would be a hierarchy at Downton, and she had her place in it. Her fingers absentmindedly stroked the skeleton key in the pocket of her robe.

"There you are then, Mrs. Hughes," Beryl Patmore was pushing a mug of steaming milk into her hands. Elsie took it, relishing the warmth of it on her palms. She sipped it, the fragrant creaminess of it soothing her.

"I do believe, Mrs. Patmore, I might be able to get a few more hours' rest after this. I'm in your debt," she grinned at her over the rim of her mug.

"You're more than welcome," the cook grinned back, continued. "Though don't get so grateful, Mrs. Hughes, that you start callin' me by my Christian name again."

Elsie nearly choked on her milk. "You know as well as I do, Mrs. Patmore, of the very specific circumstances under which I referred to you in that manner."

"Which, God willing, will never be repeated, Mrs. Hughes," the cook took her now-empty mug, placed it and her own plate in the washbasin.

"Indeed, Mrs. Patmore," Elsie sighed. "I'm not sure my nerves could handle it again."

"Your nerves, Mrs. Hughes?" Mrs. Patmore replied, and there was a glint of mischief in her eye, the middle-of-the-night kind. "Forget about your nerves, what about poor Mr. Carson's?"

And they were giggling again.

The sleeping house didn't seem to mind.