I LOVED HER FIRST*

DISCLAIMER: I do not own, nor do I profit in any way from the use of, the characters or setting or narrative framework of Downton Abbey as elaborated in the following story. All rights to these elements belong to Julian Fellowes. I am borrowing them in good faith.

Prologue: The Return of the Prodigal, Summer, 1884

Downton Abbey

The great house is visible from the top of the rise out of the village. The road curves around the edge of the estate for a good half mile before it gets to the drive, providing ample opportunity to drink in the splendour of Downton Abbey, itself on a small rise but surrounded by carefully cultivated grounds and strategically situated yews and firs, and all of it against a background of green woods and golden fields. It does his heart good to see the place again. But it is not until he steps onto the crushed gravel of the winding drive that wends its way up to the immaculately manicured gravel square at the front door that he really feels he's come home.

Downton. He was born and raised here and, except for his grammar school days when he was obliged to board weekdays in Ripon, he had not been away from it until his radical decision to throw over country ways and to seek adventure on the halls as part of a singing-dancing act that had performed up and down the northern counties, playing in towns, even some of the larger ones, and venturing as far north as Edinburgh on one disastrous occasion. When he had left the estate, it was with all the optimism of youth, unblighted by the possibility and experience of disappointment or failure, and thus with the idea of never coming back. Not permanently anyway. And yet now, here he was, only thirty-one months later, at the gates of Downton again.**

He isn't here cap-in-hand exactly. He hasn't lost everything, is in debt to no one. He could have sought employment elsewhere. There are plenty of shops and factories, and he has an education, too, so might have secured a lower management post. He could even have gone on with the act, a different act at any rate, if he'd had a mind to do so. It would have taken some work to build up from scratch again and he'd have had to find a new partner - a better partner, though it would have been difficult to find anyone worse than Charlie Grigg - but what he didn't have was the heart for it. Whatever pleasure he had once drawn from the work, the halls would now always mean heartbreak and he isn't prepared to carry that.

And Downton is going to welcome him back. At least, Mr. Finch had responded favourably to his inquiry and Dad had told him the door was always open, told him in that offhand easy way of his, in so few words the note was hardly worth the postage except for what it meant. He doesn't know in quite what capacity he might again serve in the great house, but there will be something for him here.

No doubt the staff will think he's given up, failed, come crawling back to a serious job with real security and unquestioned respectability. Well, he will be glad to let them think that. It will relieve him of revealing the truth. If they've made their minds up, he won't have to enlighten them and they won't ask troubling questions. He won't have to talk about her.

In his circumstances, service is much more than a job. It also beckons as an escape. He knows he can spend his life here - the heights of domestic service were his ambition until the halls lured him away - and now there are other advantages. House servants don't marry - well, not if they intend to advance in the work. They commit themselves to the welfare of the estate family and it never crosses anyone's mind to suggest that they might do otherwise. He will never have to explain why he doesn't have a girl. This is important because he'll never want to risk his heart again, not as he did with Alice. He has never hurt - never been hurt - so badly. Here at Downton, he can turn his back on love. Here he can pursue ambition instead.

This fact propels him up the drive at a steady pace. He checks his timepiece as he rounds the house and makes for the coal yard. If he is careful, his timing will be perfect. It was one of his strengths on the halls. It might be proper to ring the bell and have the staff admit him, rather than pushing in, but they all know him, even if they don't all like him. He hasn't been gone that long. And though he hasn't been formally offered a position, he has not lost the cockiness of his age that makes it impossible for him to anticipate rejection.

"Well, Charlie," he says to himself, as he pushes open the coal yard door, "you're on."

Mr. Finch

Mr. Finch sits behind a large desk in the butler's pantry, bent over a great ledger, his fountain pen scratching away. He might be doing up the weekly accounts or making addendums in the wine book. The butler of Downton Abbey is fifty-eight years old, a tall, slim man whose age and slender build disguise levels of energy and strength that more than meet the physical requirements of this demanding position. The staff look on him with awe, not fear, although these are not always distinguishable. He is scrupulously honest and fair and His Lordship relies upon his good counsel. He looks, to the young man who now raps on his half-open door, exactly the same as he had when they last spoke, those many months ago.

The man looks up at the sound. His eyes rest for a long moment on the young man poised in the doorway. Charles Carson is twenty-four years old. He stands 6'1", the perfect height for a footman, and has as well good looks enough to make a positive impression in the dining room and at the front door - wavy black hair, bold dark eyes, an almost ruddy complexion that speaks to a physical vigour, broad shoulders, and a way of standing that gives him a magisterial bearing even in his modest attire and youthfulness.

The butler's eyes traverse him from head to toe, a reflexive impulse on the part of one who spends his days examining all things for imperfections. This completed, he glances at the large clock that sits on the corner of his desk. He is not surprised that it is exactly ten a.m. Charles Carson has worked for him before. With a grunt, he stands up and, ignoring the pleasantries, strides to the door and pushes through it and past his visitor.

"His Lordship wants to see you," he says, over his shoulder.

His Lordship

He follows Mr. Finch up the servants' staircase, through the green baize door, and into the library. Nothing has changed. His familiarity with the house is such that he could have navigated it blindfolded. He is hardly nonchalant about this interview with Lord Grantham, but neither is he apprehensive. His Lordship has always been kind to him. So he approaches this somewhat irregular encounter with curiosity more than anything else.

The Lord of the manor is, like his butler and all of his footmen and his only son, too, a tall man. Height in a male servant is considered a virtue, although it is possible to be too tall as well. The important thing is not to overshadow His Lordship. Joseph Frederick Edmund Crawley, the Sixth Earl of Grantham, is also a well-built man, the consequence of a very physical life.*** His Lordship rides every day, in the business of the estate and for pleasure, walks when he is not riding, and sits only when he cannot reasonably avoid it. He lives for the hunting season. Lord Grantham presides with dignity over the great dinners the house hosts and is well known for his social skills, although he would usually rather be elsewhere. Meals that encompass only the immediate family are more precipitate affairs, much to the chagrin of Her Ladyship, who thinks eating hastily a vulgar practice of the lower orders.

Lord Grantham sits at his writing desk and, as is his wont, he continues to scribble away for a moment after the butler and his charge appear before him. Keeping the staff waiting on him, if only briefly, is one of Lord Grantham's ways of reiterating social distinctions without a word spoken. The butler and the prodigal footman await his pleasure in silence. Finally His Lordship looks up.

"Good morning, Charles."

He isn't Charlie Carson any more. In the great houses, footmen are known by their first names and only the formal version of their names may be used. He doesn't mind. The name Charlie is one more vestige of his life on the halls that he will be glad to shed. And being called Charles almost assuredly means he has secured a place.

The young man makes a short bow. "My lord."

His Lordship stares at him for a long moment, performing a similar visual examination to that made by Mr. Finch downstairs. Charles feels no discomfort at this. He knows that physical appearance - not merely looks, but also deportment and attention to sartorial detail - are important elements in a footman. It is not enough to be skilled. One must also present well.

"It is good to see you looking so well."

"Thank you. And you, my lord." The young man has been well schooled in the genteel manners of service.

"Finch tells me that you would like to return to Downton, Charles."

"I would, my lord, at your pleasure."

"Have you been to see your father yet?"

Charles shakes his head. "No, my lord. He knows I was to arrive today and I will see him later."

His Lordship nods at this. "He may hope you will join him in his work in the stables."

To one who was not so well acquainted with His Lordship, it might have seemed a discouragement to prospects of service in the house. But Charles has known Lord Grantham all his life and is comfortable with him, if in a very formal sense. This is his opportunity to make his own case and he seizes it.

"My lord, the stables at Downton are in the very best of hands. My father knows no equal in the length and breadth of Yorkshire - I would venture to say in all of England - in the management of stables and the care of horses. He will only employ the very best to assist him. My talents lie in domestic service, my lord, and it is there that I seek my future." He speaks slowly and clearly, enunciating his words crisply in that manner he learned in the grammar school. If he says perhaps a little too much, it is in part to remind His Lordship of his sonorous voice, one that will sound impressive in the great hall of Downton Abbey, announcing visitors. If anything, working on the halls has helped him to groom his vocal skills. It is not a bad thing to demonstrate one's talents in an interview for a position.

His Lordship's gaze flickers briefly in the direction of his butler. Charles does not give in to an impulse to do likewise. Speaking this boldly to His Lordship is one thing, and he calculates that it will have a positive effect. Mr. Finch is something else.

"I think you sell yourself short there, Charles," His Lordship says finally. "Your father trained you well. I would trust some of my horses in your hands." He laughs at his own joke and elicits an acknowledging smile from the young man. Mr. Finch remains impassive. One of the prerogatives of his senior position and long acquaintance with His Lordship is that he does not have to salute every humorous effort on his master's part. "But Finch speaks highly of you as well, and may find a use for you in the house."

And that, it seems, is all His Lordship wants to say. He nods to Mr. Finch and then turns back to his desk, picking up his fountain pen. Charles looks to the butler for direction.

"You may return to the servants' hall now, Charles, and look out a livery."

He is swept with a wave of satisfaction and is, as well, a little relieved. He had been confident of the outcome of this interview, but it is always pleasant to be on the other side of it.

"You might want to look in on your father before you take up your duties," His Lordship suggests, with a glance over his shoulder.

Charles looks to Mr. Finch for an approving nod on this. Whatever His Lordship says, it is the butler who rules his life now. Securing an almost imperceptible acknowledgment, he turns to His Lordship once more. "My lord." He executes the formalities smoothly and retires from the room.

His Lordship's Plan

As the door closes behind him, Lord Grantham turns again and the butler and his gentleman lock eyes.

"Well?"

There is no more formal relationship at Downton than the one between the man who manages the house and the man who owns the estate, but they have worked together for a quarter of a century and they always speak their minds to each other when alone.

"He's a fine footman, my lord. We already knew that. And if he settles back into the work, I do not doubt that he'll soon be the best footman. But I gather you've got something else in mind."

"Not something else, Finch. Something more. There have been Carsons at Downton since my grandfather's day."

"In the stables."

"Yes, in the stables. Running the stables. And, as young Charles has told us, never anyone better. But he believes his future lies in service."

"And this dalliance with the circus? You don't think it tells against him?" For Finch, all the lower forms of public entertainment - circus, the halls, street minstrels - run together. The butler's tone is neutral. He is asking a question, not attempting to influence His Lordship's thinking.

Lord Grantham pauses in reflection for a moment, his fingers idly manipulating the pen. "I've known Charles all his life, Finch, as have you. I've always liked him. He was a cheerful, steady lad. Always reliable, always respectful. You yourself never had a bad word to say about him as a hall boy or a junior footman."

"That is true, my lord, but he's been more than two years on the halls..."

"You speak with such odium, Finch. As vulgar as the stage may be, it's not hard labour in a prison ship. And I think it speaks well of the fellow that he struck out on his own, tried something different, saw something of the world. That he has returned tells me he has a capacity for growth, maturity. I hope he has learned a little of what is important. Perhaps he has had a few disappointments. That builds character. Now he wants a life, a career. And I intend to help him achieve that."

"And your precise plan, my lord?"

Lord Grantham shifts in his chair that he might look directly into his butler's eyes. "I want you to train him as your successor, Finch."

To another man such a statement might have come as a shock with the implication of replacement. But Finch knows his master well. He has no fears for his own position. "There are already many skilled butlers in the land, my lord. He is too young."

"You're not in the grave yet, Finch. Indeed, we may both hope you will not be there for many years yet to come. I was thinking of my son."

"My lord?"

"I have brought my son up with a clear understanding of his responsibilities with regard to Downton. He knows his duty and he will do it, and admirably in the bargain. But it is an immense task and not something that any one man can manage alone. One needs good staff. My son must look to the broader concerns of the estate. He must have in the house someone who knows what he's about, someone reliable. As I have had."

It is as close to a compliment as Lord Grantham ever gets and Finch bows his head in recognition of it. They do get on.

"As I am raising a son to this work, Finch, I want you to raise a butler. Put him in every job in the house from the bottom up. He must understand every level to manage it all. Send him away at the proper moment to learn some of the finer arts in the most appropriate places." He pauses. "This may involve a trip to the continent."

Finch nods. The best wine training to be had is, unfortunately, across the Channel.

"Teach him to deal with staff. He has a congenial personality, but he will need to learn leadership. We want neither a doormat nor a tyrant. Educate him to the nuances of benevolent tyranny." They exchange a knowing look at that. They each believe themselves past-masters of that particular practice.

"We are fortunate in his formal education, my lord," Finch notes. "He has advanced skills in organization, mathematics, book-keeping, in addition to the manners of someone well above his rank."

"His parents did well by him," His Lordship agrees, but is not yet finished his litany. "Give him responsibilities, test him, but do not give him too much that he gets discouraged. I want, when the time comes, for him to step into your shoes as smoothly as possible and to be in a position to give exemplary service to my son."

It is Finch's role to provide His Lordship with sound advice, so he cannot forbear to add one more caveat. "The others will be jealous, my lord."

This prompts a raised eyebrow on His Lordship's part, reflecting an unsympathetic interest in this point. "We're not running a popularity contest, Finch. Teach him to manage jealousy."

His Lordship asks a great deal. In the short term it will be the butler, not the favoured footman, who will have to soothe troubled egos. But Finch has enough confidence in his own abilities to accomplish any task that is set him. "I will do my best, my lord," he says formally.

This evokes a satisfied smile from His Lordship. "Then we will certainly achieve our purpose. And Finch."

The butler raises his head attentively.

"Let his sojourn on the halls lie. He has turned his back on it and so should we."

"Very good, my lord."

Dad

Dad is where Charles expects him to be - in the stables, attending to his horses. Dad loves the horses. Even Grandad, who had surrendered the job of head groom to his son, always said that Dad had a special touch with the horses. When he moves among them in the stables or crosses a field where they are grazing, they whinny to him like old friends calling across the way, and if he gives them any encouragement at all they will congregate around him in the field and he is late for wherever he's going because they all want their share of attention. He has seen almost all of them into the world and is there whenever any of them leave it, too. His loving touch follows them from the cradle to the grave. Charles was not making an idle boast when he told His Lordship that there was no better horse man in Yorkshire than Frank Carson.

He is a Yorkshireman, Dad is, the old kind, speaking only when necessary and then only to communicate something useful. Charles knows his father loves him, cherishes him even - the only surviving child, one of two born to the family. But the man has never said so in words. This is only how the men are around here and no one expects anything different. Everyone knows that a Yorkshireman feels deeply, even if he's not always gabbing about it. He also speaks in the old tongue.

"Tha' hast come back," he says, looking up from a harness that he's been polishing until the leather shines and the brass fittings gleam. His voice holds no more emotion than if he'd just seen his son over breakfast that morning, although they've not set eyes on each other in months. When Charles had announced his intention to go on the halls, his father had just shaken his head. He didn't believe in telling other men what to do, even if that other man was his son. If the lad'd run off to sing and dance at fourteen, well, that would have been another matter. But at twenty-one he could make up his own mind.

Charles and his father no longer speak the same language. He can still do the thick Yorkshire brogue if it comes to it, but his parents have discouraged him from it. They'd sent him to grammar school to learn a different way and they were proud that he'd learned it.

They exchange only a few words now, only enough for the father to hear that his son has been restored to a post at the big house. Frank Carson says nothing to the fact that Charles will start again at the bottom of the ladder. He expects no differently. Nor does he ask questions about why the lad - his father only ever infrequently calls him by name, preferring 'lad' - has come back. It is a fact. It doesn't need explanation. Life in service keeps a man busy, but the stables demand long days as well. They will be close by and will see each other as opportunity presents - they do enjoy each other's company - and that is good enough.

As he turns back to the house, Charles's thoughts turn to his mother. She died four years ago, before he went away, of a fever, one of those inexplicable ailments that come out of nowhere, wreak havoc, and then dissipate. She never knew about his time on the halls, but he thinks she would have encouraged him, if only with a look in her eye and a discreet smile. She was always singing. He misses her. And he can see, even in this brief exchange with his father, that he misses her still. Well, it is only to be expected. Theirs was a happy marriage. Charles had grown up in a happy home. But now his father is alone and lonely. He has his horses, to be sure, but as satisfying as they are to the elder Carson, they can't mend his heart. Even when it works out, love is painful.

Goodbye to Alice

He will be sharing with Simon. Mr. Finch tells him this and then leaves him to find the room on his own. He doesn't need directions. He's lived here before. It is four flights up to the servants' quarters in the attics.

After putting his few things away, he looks for a long time at the photograph that he takes from the inner pocket of his jacket. It is a portrait of a lovely young woman. The most beautiful woman he has ever seen. Alice Neal. He has loved her. He still loves her. And wishes her well. But he'll never be the same for knowing her because she has broken his heart and taken with her all of his dreams. With her have gone not only his capacity to love another, but also his joy in the crowds and the songs and the excitement of a life lived in the minute. If he cannot have Alice, even the hope of Alice, then he cannot have the halls either. He must put it all away together.

Alice hadn't taken Charlie. No, that rascal could shoulder his own share of responsibility in this mess. He is glad to have seen the back of that charlatan. If only it had not been Charlie for whom Alice had forsaken him. Anyone else and...

He stops himself. No more of that now. It is over and done with. A door closed. A heart turned to stone.

It won't be easy, but the job will help a lot. It will give him structure, discourage emotional indulgence, open the door to ambition. He's tried for a different life and failed. Now he is home again, back where he belongs. Mr. Finch has told him that he will be the most junior footman - sixth of six. When he left Downton, he'd been fourth, but you can't go away and expect someone to keep your place open for you, not for more than two years. Not for two weeks, even. It is a little disconcerting to start at the bottom again. But Mr. Finch has intimated that there is more to it than the rules of seniority, although he won't explain until it is appropriate to do so.

Charles is grateful. They've taken him back when they've no obligation to do so. Perhaps it's because they - His Lordship and Mr. Finch - think so highly of Dad. As well they should. His father is one of the most respected men on the estate. There is a lot to be said for that kind of regard. But it doesn't really matter why he's gotten the position, but only that he has got it. Even if he has to start at the lower end of the table, he knows he won't be stuck there, not like some. One day, he tells himself, he is going to be the butler of Downton Abbey. And returning to service doesn't mean he will be abandoning entirely the elements that drew him onto the halls. Isn't there an innate theatricality to the doings of a big house like Downton Abbey? with the footman all starched and on display, performing for the guests? and the role of butler - the ultimate thespian challenge? Mr. Finch takes pride in doing things properly - the way he dresses and speaks, how he orchestrates the presentation of a meal, the investiture of every ritual with a dramatic quality - because he understands the impact of even small details on any observer. It is all a great show, if heavier on setting and drama than singing and dancing.

But his ambition is, if obtainable, decades away. For now he has to concentrate on the job at hand. He will pour all his energies into it. He will close off his heart and open his mind, rejecting the distractions of love.

He puts the photograph into the small box that houses a few other mementoes of his time on the halls - a dance hall program on which his - their - act is listed; a pressed flower, the one he wore during their most memorable run in Nottingham; some scribbled notes of jokes. Then he closes the lid and pushes the box to the back of the wardrobe. He is done with all that now.

*A/N 1. The title of this story, "I Loved Her First," comes from a song by Heartland that pinkosmondfan used as the soundtrack to a beautiful fan video entitled "mary and carson," which may be found on Youtube. The song itself deals with a father-daughter relationship and thus it is a perfect fit for the father-daughter relationship between Carson and Mary. The video uses clips only from the first two seasons. It is worth watching

"I Loved Her First" is the story I've been wanting to write ever since Season 1. I've been holding onto the title for my extended exploration of Carson and Mary which begins with this Prologue. And while there is no Mary yet, she is on the immediate horizon.

**A/N 2. Now that we are beyond Downton Abbey, I think it is possible to take a little license with the literal canon. I have done so here with Carson's background and in a way that is consistent with my description of this in other stories. Carson, in my Downton Abbey world, was born in 1860 on the estate and grew up there. His father and grandfather were head grooms to Robert's father and grandfather. Carson has a grammar school education, but also served briefly as a hallboy before becoming a junior footman. Then, at age 21, he left Downton in order to go on the halls, where he remained for almost three years, returning to the estate at the beginning of this story. These details stray from the sparse details about Carson's chronology and background provided in Downton Abbey itself and in some of the books produced about it, most notably in the foreword written by Julian Fellowes to Downton Abbey: Rules for Household Staff, wherein a background biography for Carson may be found. If you piece together Julian Fellowes's chronology, you will find it sometimes does not make sense. So instead of trying to write a fictional life for Carson that takes into account the occasionally confusing "facts" of canon, I am adhering to my own version. It will have an internal consistency, if nothing else.

*** A/N 3. I haven't found a name for the Dowager's husband in canon, so he is now - in my world anyway - Joseph Frederick Edmund Crawley. (I checked out a list of popular male names in the mid-19th century.) I have identified him as the Sixth Earl of Grantham, which will make his son Robert the Seventh Earl of Grantham. Julian Fellowes has not been entirely consistent on this throughout the series, and Jessica Fellowes, in the various companion volumes, has used Fifth and Seventh for Robert. But Robert as the Seventh Earl makes more sense. I've also pulled a name for Carson's father - Frank Carson - out of the thin air.