Mrs. Hughes Does Not Live in a Sack!
Mr. Carson swung the beam of the electric hand torch back and forth over the lawn. The bazaar had ended hours ago, and the staff had done their best to clean up before nightfall, but the sun had sunk quickly. The maids had finished clearing the food, drink, serving ware, table linens, and decorations with little light remaining, and the footmen had taken down the tents, tables, and chairs in near darkness. Mrs. Hughes had then persuaded Mr. Carson that everything essential had been taken care of, that whatever had been left behind could wait until the next morning, and that the staff should be released to go to bed after a long day's work. She'd herded everyone inside while Mr. Carson was making a final sweep of the grounds – to ensure that nothing crucial had been forgotten. After the maids and footmen had had a cup of tea and gone upstairs, Mr. and Mrs. Bates had left for their cottage, and Mr. Carson still had not come inside. Mrs. Hughes procured another torch and went back out in search of him.
"Mr. Carson! There you are! Whatever are you still doing out here?" she called as she approached him.
"Just checking more thoroughly, Mrs. Hughes," he informed her. "It wouldn't do for the family to wake to find a mess on the front lawn tomorrow."
"Anything shabby shows Downton in a bad light," she said, echoing his earlier words with obvious sarcasm.
"And we can't have that." He played along, knowing she was teasing him, but secretly enjoying it.
"No, Mr. Carson, we can't." She seemed mildly amused and only slightly annoyed with his pompousness. After a pause, she continued, "Let me help you. It's getting late, and we'll finish sooner with the two of us looking than you would on your own."
"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Hughes. It shouldn't take much longer. So far I've found nothing amiss. I just want to be sure we haven't left anything important. If you wouldn't mind helping, I'd be grateful. Perhaps I could continue looking here and you could check the other side," he suggested.
"Certainly," she agreed.
"Very good. Thank you."
"Not at all."
He nodded and continued his systematic inspection, and she turned to begin her survey.
The half-moon was bright and aided them considerably in their task, but the hand torches allowed them to comb the grounds more closely. After they'd searched the lawn for a few minutes, Mr. Carson looked over to see that Mrs. Hughes's torch beam was no longer moving in a regular arc, but had stilled and was low to the ground.
"Mrs. Hughes? Is something the matter? What is it?" he called out, walking toward her and seeing her stooped over something on the grass.
"Oh, it's nothing, Mr. Carson. Only, I've found something; that's all. A couple of Hessian sacks left over from the races," she answered, standing up and holding them out to show him. "Someone must have overlooked them."
"That would have been James. It was his job to collect them all. I'll speak to him in the morning. Here. Let me take those. I'll put them away," he offered, relieving her of the sacks with one hand while still holding his torch in the other. As he did so, he noticed her eyes glistening and heard a barely audible sniffle.
"What is it?" he asked gently. "What's wrong?"
"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson. I'm being silly. Don't mind me." She tried to dismiss his concern, but he heard her quiet sobs and persisted.
"Tell me … please," he implored her. "If something's the matter, I'd like to know."
"I'm just feeling a little sentimental, I suppose. The Hessian sacks always remind me of home. We had them everywhere on the farm. My sister and I used to play all sorts of games with them. Once, we sewed a dress for the dog. We thought it was very smart-looking, but the poor beast didn't fancy it at all," she smiled wistfully.
"You must miss her terribly," he observed, referring to her sister, who had passed away only two months prior. Mr. Carson had noticed that in the intervening months, Mrs. Hughes had not been her usual self. Oh, she'd worked just as efficiently as always, still teased him occasionally, and never actually moped about. But she'd been quieter and more thoughtful; the sparkle in her eyes had not been quite as bright; the music in her voice had been slightly melancholy; and her tread had been just a bit heavier. He was certain that no one else had noticed, but he had spent two decades making a careful study of the woman; he couldn't fail to register the difference, and it pained his heart.
"I do, Mr. Carson. Very much," she admitted shakily as she wiped away the tears from her cheeks. "We didn't see each other as often as we'd have liked in recent years, but we wrote to each other regularly, and when we did visit, I could almost imagine that nothing had changed. It was nearly as if no time had passed, and we were still those two young girls ... But now, she's gone, and I'm certainly no young girl."
Mr. Carson desperately wanted to comfort her, but he could think of nothing to say. He concentrated feverishly, and soon an idea came to him – an idea which demanded of him some very uncharacteristic and uncomfortable behavior, but an idea which certainly would achieve his aim. He set down his hand torch and held out one of the sacks to Mrs. Hughes.
"Right. Come on, then," he said.
She looked at him in confusion.
"Take this and set down your light," he instructed her.
She took the sack from him and placed her electric torch on the ground, eyeing him uncertainly.
"We're going to race," stated Mr. Carson with great authority. "Not very far; just to the big oak tree."
She was incredulous. "Are you mad?! You and I? Race?! With sacks?! In the dark?! We're far too old for that. And more to the point, I can't imagine your ever bounding about in a Hessian sack!"
He puffed up haughtily, feigning offense. "I am not a complete stranger to fun, if that's what you're implying. Maybe I am now, but I wasn't always. I'll have you know, as a young lad, I was the village sack-racing champion. I won the prize every year at the fair."
"You never did!" exclaimed Mrs. Hughes in disbelief.
"I did indeed! And I'll bet I can beat you to that tree."
"Really, Mr. Carson!"
"Come on. I dare you," he challenged.
"But if we get our clothing soiled ... " she argued.
"If we get it soiled, we'll clean it," he reasoned.
"Suppose we fall over."
"Suppose a there's an earthquake … or a tidal wave … or we're hit by a falling star. You can hold my hand. Then we'll both go down together," he assured her, attempting to sound more convinced than he actually felt.
She laughed. "I think I will hold your hand. It will make me feel a bit steadier."
Shaking her head but smiling, Mrs. Hughes bent, stepped into her sack, and pulled it up to her waist. Mr. Carson stooped, aimed the torches so that their beams shone in the direction of the tree, and arranged himself in his own sack. Then he held out his hand to her, and she took it. They stood for a moment just smiling at each other.
"Ready?" he asked.
"Ready," she confirmed.
"On your mark. Get set. Go!" he said dramatically.
The pair set off. It was not so much a race as it was two people hopping alongside each other, trying to move forward and remain upright, while at the same time keeping their sacks up and holding hands. Holding onto each other was, in reality, not aiding but rather impeding their progress, because it threw them off balance, but neither let go. They'd nearly reached the tree, laughing all the while, when Mr. Carson lost his balance and toppled over, bringing Mrs. Hughes down with him.
He'd managed to let go of his sack and hold onto Mrs. Hughes, landing on his back and pulling her on top of himself to soften her fall. Neither having been hurt, they lay there and giggled breathlessly for a moment longer, until they became suddenly and acutely aware of their situation, and then all laughter ceased. Their bodies were pressed against each other, and their faces were nearly touching. Mr. Carson's arms were wrapped protectively around Mrs. Hughes, and his hands were on her back; her hands and forearms were resting on his chest. They lay, gasping and panting, unable to move, to speak, or to tear their eyes from each other's gaze.
Finally, Mrs. Hughes removed herself from Mr. Carson while he reluctantly disengaged himself. After they'd extricated themselves from their sacks, Mr. Carson scrambled to his feet and reached down to help Mrs. Hughes up. He took her hands, carefully pulled her to her feet, and then grasped her by the elbows, wanting to keep her close to him. It pleased him immensely when she settled her hands lightly on his arms.
"You're not injured, are you?" he asked. She seemed unharmed, but he needed to be sure.
"No, I'm not hurt. I had you beneath me to cushion my fall," she chuckled. "I'm afraid you suffered the brunt of the blow. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine, thank you. I landed softly enough," he assured her.
"Yes, until I came crashing down on top of you."
"I didn't mind."
For a tense moment, their breathing stilled, and they regarded one another expectantly, but neither moved. Still holding one of her arms, Mr. Carson guided Mrs. Hughes to a bench under the tree that had been their intended goal, and they both sat down. He dared to drape his arm around her shoulders, and she seemed content to allow such familiarity.
"I'm sorry, Mrs. Hughes. That was very foolish and clumsy of me," he apologized.
"Not at all. On the contrary, Mr. Carson, I quite enjoyed it. Thank you. It felt good to laugh like that."
"I'm glad."
She placed her hand on his knee, and he covered it with his free hand and leaned in closer to her. She smiled at him so sweetly, smelled so good, and looked so beautiful with her face flushed and a few wisps of hair coming loose. He wanted so badly to kiss her, but he didn't want to take advantage of the quiet, pensive mood. He settled for pressing his lips reverently to her forehead and trying to convey all his sincerity and affection through that innocent gesture. As soon as he began to move his face away, she moved hers closer again and kissed his cheek. It wasn't a quick, friendly peck, but a slow, lingering kiss whose meaning couldn't be mistaken. That was all the encouragement he needed, and he turned his face so that his lips met hers.
It was not at all the kiss he'd so often imagined: heady and desperate, teeth nipping and nibbling, tongues slipping and sliding, hands gripping and groping – a frenzied moment of passion that was impossible to resist. No, this kiss was far more intimate. It was calm and rational, full of meaning and promise: lips moving over and across each other lightly, gingerly, earnestly. This gesture had been deliberately chosen, and the affection had been freely given. In that instant, either could have resisted, but neither did. Their actions were not forced upon them by circumstances, but consciously and thoughtfully willed. The tenderness he felt moved him nearly to tears. When at last they drew apart, no words were needed. They sat quietly, looking up at the stars and the moon, listening to the crickets and owls and frogs.
"Will you tell me about her? Your sister, I mean," said Mr. Carson many minutes later, turning toward Mrs. Hughes.
"What do you want to know?" Mrs. Hughes asked.
"Oh … I don't know. Anything you'd like to tell me. Was she very like you? What mischief did the young Hughes sisters wreak on the farm – aside from dressing up the poor dog? Did you quarrel much, or were you always the best of friends?"
For the next hour, Mrs. Hughes told Mr. Carson all about her sister and her childhood in Argyll. She told of village dances, giggling in church, and terrorizing the boys who lived on the farm over the hill. She laughed a great deal, recalling the good times, and when she did, he couldn't help but share her mirth. Then she spoke of illnesses, heartaches, and her parents' deaths. She cried, too, remembering those less pleasant events and missing her sister, and when she did, he held her close, wiped away her tears, and tenderly kissed the top of her head. When she became especially unhappy, he regaled her with tales of his sack-racing exploits and other adventures from his own youth, and she cheered considerably.
Mr. Carson would have been glad to sit with Mrs. Hughes all night and listen to anything she wanted to tell him, but of course, that was impractical. At a certain point, she stood, declaring, "It's getting quite late. We should go inside."
"I suppose you're right," he agreed grudgingly while rising from the bench.
As they stood facing each other, she took both his hands in her own and smiled up at him brilliantly. Then she lifted his hands to her lips, closed her eyes, and kissed his hands softly. "Mr. Carson," she said, "I'm very grateful for what you've done tonight. I feel better than I have in months. Thank you." And she raised herself on her toes and kissed his mouth.
"It's been my pleasure, Mrs. Hughes," he told her shyly as she lowered herself back down. She couldn't have known how delighted he was to have achieved his aim.
As he had earlier, he offered her his hand, and she took it gratefully. They walked in contented silence back to the house, stopping only to gather the torches.
OoOoOoOoO
The next morning, when James went out to meet the delinquent paper boy, he noticed two neglected Hessian sacks on the lawn. He quickly retrieved them, feeling very fortunate that Mr. Carson had not discovered his oversight, but his relief was short-lived. Immediately upon returning to the courtyard, he encountered the stern-faced butler who said only, "James … A word in my pantry, please."
A/N This story is for Kissman, who could benefit from a little diversion right about now. I hope this suits.
The inspiration for this little fic came from Mrs. Hughes's famous line to Major Bryant and Ethel in Episode 2 X 04: "I may not be a woman of the world, but I don't live in a sack!" Evitamockingbird suggested that someone should write about Mrs. Hughes in a sack. She also generously provided me with some excellent advice and ideas, most of which I've incorporated into the story. Many thanks to her for all the help.
This story started out traveling through Silly and Fluffy and heading straight to Downtown Romantic, but somewhere along the way it took a detour through the outskirts of Angsty and the heart of Friendly. We took the scenic route, but ultimately, we arrived at our destination. Next time, I'll specify "most direct route" on my GPS.
Mrs. Hughes's sister was mentioned exactly once, in Episode 1 X 04. At that time (1913), she was living in Lytham St Annes. We've not heard a word about her since, so we have no idea what her status is in later episodes/seasons. I took the liberty of allowing her to die, because her death suited the purposes of this story. Cruel, I know, but there you have it.
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