A/N: It is my firm belief that Mrs. Hughes has said 'Suppose a _, Suppose a _' many many many times.
Also, they aren't mine. And the lines from the show are definitely from the show.
1910 - April
Never leave anything to chance. Carson had always said this was his motto, but he was finding it hard to reconcile this with his utter failure to make a will.
He lay ill in bed. Breathing was still difficult and he still felt as though he were on the brink of death. A hard throbbing in his head told him his fever had returned. It was useless, at this point, to consider a Last Will and Testament.
Once upon a time he had considered leaving everything he had to the young Lady Mary. She was as close to a daughter as he would ever have, but that thought was dismissed quickly as other thoughts of impertinence took its place. Truly the reason he hadn't yet made a will was due to the sole fact he had no one to whom he could leave anything.
His thoughts turned to the woman sitting next to him. Mrs. Hughes sat near a small candle reading quietly. She had been sitting besides his bed for the last two nights. Doctor Clarkson had no nurses to lend, everyone in the village it seemed was ill. Many blamed Hailey's Comet for the onslaught of fever gripping Yorkshire, others blamed the rise of sinners and the End of Days. Carson thanked God for Mrs. Hughes. The soft rustle as she turned a page in her book or the quiet breaths she took as she slowly dosed off meant he had a companion in this dark time. She'd risen to the challenge of nurse as easily as she met her routine challenges of the house. He adored her for it.
A cold cloth touching his forehead pulled him from his thoughts. Mrs. Hughes gently dabbed his aching fever away. He tried to speak. She shushed him quietly and murmured something about resting. It pained him to know he could never care for her in the way he desperately wanted - he could care about her, but he could never care for her. Over the years he had learned to laugh at himself whenever he thought of the horrified look on her face if she should ever find out how much he loved her.
Her deft hands began to pull at his blankets until they were free. A rush of cold air bore gooseflesh upon his skin. He must have sweated through his sheets again. She never left him exposed for long, throwing another cover over him and tucking him in as quickly as two of her maids could make a bed. She returned to her seat and began to read again.
He watched her out of the corner of his eyes. He remembered how quickly his adoration for her had grown - for her skills, work ethic, moral ethic, her wit - how he had learned to ask for her opinion just so they could talk. It would be all too easy to leave her everything. She would certainly deserve it after the way she looked after him.
Yes, Carson decided as the soft edges of sleep overtook him, he would leave his meager fortune to Mrs. Hughes. That way he could finally care for her.
1912 - September
Honor and integrity. Those were her words. They floated around his mind hours now since she had said them. He had always wondered what she thought of him, but feared the answer. A man of honor and integrity. He couldn't have asked for better.
The wine was getting to his head. She had declined his offer to join him after they had finished dinner. The soft smile she afforded him as she headed up the stairs was a little comfort he could carry with him. He drank alone. The others had followed Mrs. Hughes not longer after.
Honor and integrity, but also cautious, and proper, and a tiny bit cowardly, he added to her description. And a thief now too, no less. He finished off the last of the glass and realized he wasn't at all sleepy. Pouring himself another he considered adding indecent to the list. Was it not indecent to pine after a co-worker? Let alone the fact he should not be pining for anyone, he was a butler and therefore chaste and resolute in his service to the family and no one else.
He fiddled with the pen he'd been holding. It was something for his hands to do while he sat alone in the dark thinking of her. A small candle stood on his table near the wall. It had withered towards its end. He finished his fourth glass, poured another, and resolved himself for the task ahead. Something needed to be released and there was only one way he could do it.
He pulled a paper from his desk and let the words flow:
My Dearest Mrs. Hughes,
Today you said I "raise the tone of this household by being part of it". It pains me to know how high you place me in your esteem. I feel undeserving, for I have all but lied to you in all the time we have known one another. That while you have spent countless hours at my side reviewing orders and accounts I have quietly loved you from afar. Our moments together I wish to neither degrade as memories of unrequited love, nor do I wish to cause you discomfort in the future. I do not propose marriage because I know I could never ask of you anything you would not willingly give. I pray only that you do not read these words in horror.
Your humble servant,
Charlie Carson
He read and re-read the letter until the wine carried him to the edge of tolerance. Standing quietly he slipped the folded letter into an old book and determined to forget about it. The whole decision to write had been brought on by the wine anyhow.
1913 - May
She had agreed to have tea with him in the afternoon, so he stood in his pantry waiting impatiently.
It had been three days since the fair, since Anna's illness subsided, since Mrs. Hughes had turned down Mr. Burns. It should have been a victory - and at first it was. Another man had arrived upon her doorstep and she had deftly shooed him away. But with three days to think about it, Carson had found a better reason, truly, a worse reason why she had not accepted marriage: she lacked any and all interest in the institution.
And why should she have any interest? She had explained how important her work was to her. In a way, he reasoned, she was the perfect servant. A much better servant than he, though he would never say it aloud as she would want to know why and he could never tell her why.
As she knocked on his door, he felt whatever foolish hope he had once had diminish completely. No woman would ever love him. That he had been certain of before. And now, as she walked through his door smiling, a tray of biscuits in her arms, he decided that no woman could ever love him, especially not her.
1917 - April
He was a filthy hypocrite and he knew it. Tell him...or you'll regret it all your life long. His advice to Lady Mary felt hollow and dull and dishonest.
"You're very quiet this evening." Mrs. Hughes said, bringing him back to the present.
He took a bite of his Shepard's pie to relinquish the need to answer, which only served to prove her point.
She sat besides him in what he thought of as her chair, working on a small puzzle as she spoke, using a serving tray as a table in her lap for all the small pieces.
"I hope you're not too upset with Mr. Lang." She said, "It wouldn't do you any good to dwell."
He shook his head and took a sip of water. He explained, "I got flustered -"
"It wouldn't do to dwell on that either."
Tossing her a look of faux annoyance, he returned to his meal. After a few bites he continued, "It's good of you to sit with me."
"Well, I know how you don't like to eat alone." She said. She added a little 'ah' as she found a piece she had been looking for.
"I don't recall ever saying that."
She pursed her lips and looked up at him, "I'll admit, it was a while ago."
Their eyes locked. He felt a heaviness in his chest and quickly looked away. He might not have had a heart attack, but it wouldn't do to repeat what happened in the dinning room. He finished off his pie and set his fork down. Two thoughts had split his mind in half: tell her now, or don't tell her at all.
"Mrs. Hughes..." He started.
She looked up expectantly. He cleared his throat.
"Nevermind." He finished. He drained his cup of water. She removed the tray. He fell asleep in the dark, feeling the pressure of a failed night creep into his chest.
1918 - November
He made a list -
Chocolate shopping - Christmas
A walk - Thirsk
Tea - Rippon
Go to the pictures - Theda Bara?
Write letters
Visit Downton?
Visit Haxby? - unheard of
Cider - Grantham Arms
A picnic?
-of things they could do together so she wouldn't miss him.
1920 - May
He told Thomas he would polish the silver. He told Anna Mrs. Hughes had gone out for some errands. He told Alfred to tend the tea service. He told himself she would be fine.
He polished the silver.
He checked the time.
Polished silver.
Checked time.
Not a full minute had gone by.
If she came home with good news - cancer free - would she tell him?
If she came home with bad news - cancer - would she tell him?
If she came home with bad news - cancer - would he tell her?
Polish.
Time.
He couldn't ask her to marry him. It would be selfish.
He would have to control himself, more so now than ever before, if the news was bad.
He couldn't cry in front of her. It would be selfish.
Polish.
Time.
Polish.
Time.
He wouldn't cry in front of her.
He wouldn't tell her he loved her.
Polish.
Time.
He could care for her.
He would make her last months her happiest months.
He would bring back his old jokes, his juggling.
He would dance for her - if she wanted, if it would help.
He could read to her.
Polish.
Time.
Polish.
Time.
He could tell her the story about how he broke his nose.
Or how he learned to ride a bicycle.
Or how he spent one summer leaning out of a tree doing parodies of Romeo and Juliet.
Polish.
Time.
He could sing Modern Major General and forget the words on purpose - because he knows she knows them all.
Polish.
Time.
He could hold her if she wanted, if she was sad, if she needed it.
He could hold her hand.
Polish.
Time.
He would sit by her bedside and read, change her sheets, help her with her jigsaw puzzles.
Polish.
Time.
He would watch as her body stilled, letting go of her last breath.
He would say goodbye.
He would not cry in front of her.
Polish.
Time.
Polish.
Time.
He could be losing his dearest friend.
Polish.
The door clicked open. Another door shut. Footsteps in the kitchen.
He forgot to drop the rag in his hand as he ran.
1920 - September
It was not the first night they had comforted one another. When William died, she spent the night in his pantry talking about all the maids and footmen they had brought up, the ones they had lost - William was not the first - and the ones they had given away to other houses and spouses.
It was tradition, in a way. A dreary tradition. To sit up all night discussing the person who had died. It helped keep the memories alive. He often wondered if it would be wise to include the others, help them to grieve. He never mentioned it to her.
They didn't discuss anything that night. No words about how kind Lady Sibyl was, how thoughtful, what a great nurse. Instead, she pulled her hand from his and made tea. It took her longer than usual and her voice comforting the others stood out as the reason why. Neither of them sent anyone upstairs to bed that night. They themselves sat in his pantry, silent.
At some point she fell asleep. She cried in her sleep. It was the only time he had seen her cry.
He gave her a blanket. He stopped himself from giving her a kiss on the cheek. He gave her his pantry to sleep while he sat in her sitting room to weep.
1922 - April
It changes you from where I'm looking.
Her words kept him awake at night.
Was it possible to love two people at once? Perhaps he had loved Alice because of the way her eyes would light up when she saw him. Perhaps he loved Mrs. Hughes because of the way she cared for him, even when they were at odds. Perhaps love was fickle and bestowed itself upon only the select few who could be loved in returned.
He was now among that select few.
It made him question his past decisions. Suppose he had stayed with the theater. Suppose he had fought for Alice. Suppose a bomb goes off, he could hear Mrs. Hughes berate him.
He could have had a life outside of service, a life he had not considered since leaving the theater. A life which now showed a glimmer of hope. He was, after all, in his sixties, close to retirement age. His diligence in never leaving anything to chance meant he had paid into a number of schemes, done in case he became ill in his old age, but now he could retire easily.
He rolled onto his side, his bed squeaking. He did not want to retire. It would mean leaving her behind, which he would not do now, not now there was the smallest of chances. She seemed to be coming into his pantry more and more often these days, offering another glimmer of hope. But he would not do anything until he was sure she felt even slightly what he felt.
1923 - July
She had offered him her hand.
I know I could never ask of you anything you would not willingly give. He remembered thinking that once.
She had willingly given him her hand.
1924 - June
His plans were written in the back of his wine ledger -
Plan A, approximated time 4 months:
Step 1: Discuss Retirement
Step 2: Discuss Mrs. Patmore's new purchase
Step 3: Ask about investing in property together
Step 4: Mrs. Hughes sees through plan
Step 5: Propose
Plan B, approximated time 1 year:
Step 1: Discuss Retirement
Step 2: Discuss Mrs. Patmore's new purchase
Step 3: Ask about investing in property together
Step 4: Discuss rental ideas
Step 5: Discuss rental ideas - Bed and Breakfast
Step 6: Search for Properties
Step 7: Buy property
Step 8: Buy furniture, discuss retirement
Step 9: Comment on difficulty running the big house and their small property
Step 10: Propose
- and were promptly torn to shreds and burned when she wished him luck.
1924 - September
"Mrs. Hughes, might I have a word?" He asked, catching her in the middle of the hallway.
She followed him into his pantry. They had not yet spoken of her sister, or his property, since the other night.
"Have we settled on the desert for Lord Lawson tomorrow?" He asked.
"We have, Mr. Carson. I thought I put a copy of the menu on your desk." She said.
He frowned, "I must have missed it."
She shuffled a few pages in her hand, double checking.
"Ah, here it is. Sorry about that." She said, handing him the missing menu.
He took it from her, purposefully touching her hand as he did so.
"Is there anything else?" She asked.
"No. Thank you."
She swept from the room. He watched her go and decided he would propose on Christmas Eve.
Reviews always appreciated! (I have no idea why there was so much rhyming going on in this)