I stared down at the envelope which had been part of this morning's mail delivery. The writing was instantly recognisable even though I only had the chance to decipher the sloping script for the first time a few months ago. As promised, Mr Carson, the Grantham's esteemed butler, had sent me a letter.
The Season had all but officially finished and the Yorkshire natives were leaving London when Mr Carson had come into the sitting room to bid me farewell.
"I was wondering…"
"Yes?" I prompted, when he hesitated and fidgeted with the buttons of his travel coat.
"While I've been here, I've come to enjoy our talks."
"As have I." Conversation flowed easily between us, despite our limited acquaintance.
"And as such, I wondered if we could occasionally correspond."
"Correspond?" I frowned, slightly confused as to his intent.
He didn't answer immediately. Instead he turned and closed my sitting room door, effectively blocking out the busyness of the hallway. The last of the trunks was being loaded onto the autos, all ready to be transported to the train station. The family members were already en route, and the Abbey's servants would soon follow.
"Just news about the family," he continued. "Snippets, I should like to call them, that I think you might find amusing."
Amusing? His demeanour at that moment was hardly jovial. He was holding himself very still and stretching his entire six-foot-something-ridiculous height to its fullest. His expression was most serious and I kept just as solemn in response.
It reminded me that I had yet to see him laugh. Even his smiles I had witnessed up to now had been rare. He was every bit the controlled butler one hears about in idle servant chatter, but wonders if they exist in real life.
Yet as far as I knew, this was real life, and this great man had deemed me worthy of his interest, albeit on a small scale.
He was smoothing down the pockets of his coat now and I had the urge to reach out and grasp his hands, to hold them still, to cradle them in my much smaller ones. I resisted, of course.
Instead, I found myself speaking in a rush: "It would make a pleasant change, I agree, Mr Carson, to be up to date with the latest comings and goings of the family."
I hoped I wasn't sounding like I was eager for gossip, even though in some ways I was desperate for it. My view of the Crawley family was so narrow. It would be such a great advantage to see the full picture.
"I could talk to Mrs Bute and ask if she would like to pass on any tips for you also."
I felt my mouth tighten at that offer. Mrs Bute… It was very uncharitable of me to dislike someone so intensely before I'd even met them.
"Perhaps," I said in a tone that I hoped offered no encouragement in that direction but didn't sound rude nevertheless.
"Good. It's settled then," he said.
My bottom lip bore the brunt of my anxiety regarding this supposed settlement. Before I found any words to express my trepidation, however, he'd donned his bowler hat and stalked out into the hallway, barking orders and hurrying everyone along to ensure all those concerned respected the train timetable.
I ran my tongue over my bottom lip now, realising from the ragged skin I had been worrying it for the past few minutes.
Mrs Tomkinson, the cook, obviously hadn't missed my reaction, judging from her speculative gaze.
I slipped the letter into my pocket, ignoring her the best I could. But she wasn't the type to take the hint.
"The return address is from the big house. Shouldn't you check and see if we need to make preparations? One of the family members might be on his way."
"I'm sure they'd send a telegram if there was such a spontaneous trip," I said, leaving the letter right where it was. I might have been fretting I was becoming a busybody as I aged, but there was no doubt Mrs Tomkinson had already taken up the mantle. There was no way I was going to give her any chance to spread unfair rumours about a gentleman like Mr Carson.
She was not one to yield so easily, however. She contemplated if the letter contained a list of things we should improve upon before the family's next visit, and if so, whether or not Mrs Bute had composed the list. I retaliated by wondering aloud if Mrs Patmore's letter had gone astray.
And so it went on, until I felt a headache threatening from trading volleys with the cook.
Eventually, I managed a moment of complete privacy to retrieve the letter from my pocket. I couldn't lock the sitting room door, but I did choose a time when one of the maids or Mrs Tomkinson was unlikely to interrupt. For all her faults, Mrs Tomkinson was dedicated to her cooking and leaving the kitchen just prior to dinner, even if it was only the servants who planned on eating, wouldn't cross her mind.
Still, I sat with my back against the wall, facing the door should it open with news of some emergency or other. This was unlikely to occur when no family members were in residence, I knew, but it still gave me a sense of security.
It also reminded me of the times I'd sat just so, Mr Carson occupying the other straight backed chair, and only the low side table separating us.
It had been about a month into the Season when he'd knocked upon my door and for the first time offered me a sherry. He'd complimented me on the smooth way the household was running, considering. There had always been the need for major adjustments in the past, he'd said, when integrating the London and Yorkshire staff.
Along those lines I had thought he'd come to my room to give me some sort of speech regarding work being incompetently or inadequately carried out by one of the London household. Offering praise instead of critique had left me speechless.
Soon enough, we got into a routine, Mr Carson and I. Each evening he would drop into my sitting room to share a glass of whatever surplus wine or port was on hand, and to talk. We recounted the day's activities mostly, or made tentative plans for the next family event. Our brief acquaintance would not allow anything more intimate and if I imagined such an atmosphere I chided myself for such fanciful notions.
I didn't imagine it though when, as the days and weeks of the Season rolled by faster and faster, I started to be consumed with a sense of melancholy. The house would soon be quiet once more and I would return to my meagre set of duties, after which I would again need to be content with my own company.
As my mood fluctuated, I also became aware that any good humour Mr Carson had displayed previously was quickly disappearing. I heard his raised voice more in the last week of his stay, a time when the atmosphere should be at its least tense given numbers of the peerage withdrawing back to the country, than any other since he'd arrived.
I fantasised that he was as disheartened as I was that our time together would soon be at an end. I even had the lofty idea he might suggest I take up some vacant position at Downton. No job offer was forthcoming, of course. This was when I knew I was getting old and silly and that a healthy dose of reality would not be disadvantageous.
As it turned out the much anticipated letter would completely burst my utopian bubble.
Dear Mrs Hughes,
One might have thought I was going to slowly savour each word, searching for hidden messages or meanings, but I didn't. I quickly read the entire letter through in less than five minutes flat.
It was three pages long and, as promised, was a collection of Crawley family anecdotes.
I turned it over and checked the back of each page, as if some private information of Mr Carson's would suddenly appear and give me some insight into his mind and soul. It didn't, obviously.
I folded the letter back into my pocket and began to mentally compose several letters of reply, the faint din of the kitchen subtly reminding me that I still had responsibilities beyond corresponding with a fellow senior servant.
My letter, when it was finally written and sealed within an envelope which would be pushed through the slot of the mailbox at the end of the road, contained a series of misadventures featuring Mrs Tomkinson and myself and a cake recipe. I mirrored his style, keeping the tone lighthearted, and offered not the slightest glimpse of anything truly private or personal.
This pattern continued right through the summer months. I was soon knowledgeable when it came to Lady Mary's talents, King George's ideals, and the English cricket team's upcoming South African tour. I read about decanting port, polishing silver, and the regulation width which must be left between cutlery when setting a formal table.
Thankfully, there were no helpful household hints from Mrs Bute. My patience was not everlasting.