November 1921

It was difficult for Cora to admit, but in many ways, the death of Matthew Crawley had a positive effect on Downton. Cora was by no means glad that Matthew was dead, and she mourned deeply with the rest of the family, but she could not ignore the fact that the void left by Matthew was being filled in surprisingly tender ways. An idyllic calm had settled over the house.

Mary and Edith seemed to have reached an understanding where they could genuinely give and gratefully receive the sisterly love they had shared as young girls, before Edith's insecurity and Mary's vanity had made them enemies. They'd accepted Rose into their circle not as a replacement for Sybil, but as a tribute. Welcoming her into their intimate family circle was something that Sybil would have done. Although the house was in mourning, Downton was a happier home than that to which she was accustomed.

Robert and Tom were getting along famously, with Tom patiently including Robert in all the estate business that he could handle and excluding him from the estate business that did not interest him. Robert had not fully embraced Tom as a son, as he had Matthew, but there were far fewer snide comments from both sides.

Cora, Violet and Isobel had formed a peaceful triumvirate, each supporting the others selflessly and sincerely. It was as likely to last as a Roman triumvirate, but it was pleasant enough for now.

Things were going so well at home, Cora wished the time of mourning was already over. She knew six months was the appropriate minimum time and Mary was likely to insist on longer, but Cora wanted to entertain now; to hear music and laughter in the halls; to see both her daughters blush again under the loving gaze of admirers.

She could not voice her thoughts to Robert. He would call her heartless and unfeeling. He never understood her when she spoke pragmatically about things like courtship and marriage. He had often scolded her when she tried to talk to him honestly about Matthew and Mary. Perhaps certain things sounded heartless when stated aloud, but she'd never said anything that wasn't true. And she was always on Mary's side, which was more than one could say for Robert. Cora was always assessing the situation and considering Mary's prospects with a decidedly feminine practicality. And Cora had known things that Robert had not.

When the time came, Cora would have to be the one who suggested that Mary should remarry, or at least entertain suitors. Robert and Mary would resist and protest, but Rosamund would back her. Rosamund would understand, as she herself had been widowed before she was ready to dispense with male attention. Of course, Cora knew that her daughter's heart was currently devastated and still too raw to heal. Cora would never push Mary beyond her own pace, but Mary was strong and once she faced the pain, Mary's heart would begin to rebuild itself enough to move on, as Cora's own heart had healed so many years ago.

But Robert was a man and he had the freedom to act as though things like having a position and a protector did not matter. He could not let himself see how vulnerable Mary truly was. There was an heir now, a dear and fragile little boy. But hadn't they learned that heirs were not guaranteed to inherit? Cora worried what would become of Mary if something were to happen to George before he could inherit. Robert would accuse Cora of wishing her own grandchild dead, just because she dared to speak of the very real possibility. He would believe her to be callous and mercenary. This was all very hypocritical of him. It was he who had wooed and married Cora with no love in his heart.

Not that she had loved him; he was simply the best of the available candidates that season. A failed affair of the heart and her mother had driven her from New York. Her father was more than willing to use her and his money to gain the prestige that birth had denied him. But he had made it clear that he was not bankrolling more than one season in London. How vulgar her American roots seemed to her now, but she still had that streak of practicality that the British claimed, but that the Americans actually practiced.

For all the British pride in remaining unruffled, it seemed to Cora that they merely deferred things until they blew up and could no longer be ignored. She much preferred acknowledging the true nature of a situation and dealing with it from the start; even if doing so was considered ill-mannered by her very proper British husband.

So, now, Cora had to admit it. Even amidst the sorrow, she appreciated that Downton had never run more smoothly in all the years she had been there. They'd reached a perfect balance somehow. While the family upstairs consoled each other in their own ways, the downstairs staff danced a perfectly choreographed and imperceptible ballet around them. The fires seemed to light themselves. The pillows were always fluffed though the maids were never seen. Tea seemed to appear out of thin air when it was wanted and then disappear when it was no longer desired. Servants appeared before she'd removed her hand from the bell rope. Dinners were eaten in near silence with only their favorite foods and wines. The very house itself seemed to anticipate the family's every need like an enchanted castle in a fairy tale. Cora had the absurd idea that if she had tried to stub her toe on her way to sleep at night, the bed itself would jump out of her way.

Her family was not the source of this harmony. It came from somewhere deeper in the house. Robert would not have noticed, but Cora had. Something had changed below stairs; something that had nothing to do with Matthew.

CE—

They were in the Downton housekeeper's sitting room, on her settee. Elsie Hughes was reviewing orders and menus for the upcoming week. Charles Carson was at the other end of the settee, planning wine pairings in his head as he massaged the delicate feet she had laid in his lap. Occasionally, his fingers would trail as high as her ankles, which he liked to tickle over her stockings.

"Cheeky," she smirked as she poked him in the belly with her toe. His hands returned dutifully back to her feet.

It was now mid-November. They'd finally admitted their love for one another just over two months ago amongst the flood of emotions brought about by the death of Matthew Crawley. Elsie felt as though her feet had not touched the ground in all that time.

Outwardly, their daily routine was unchanged. They looked after the needs of the household and the family with the same hard earned efficiency as ever. It was the overt intimacy of the evenings that was novel to them. Now they could openly feed off each other's love and support. They could speak words that had gone unsaid for over twenty years.

They'd managed to keep their intimacy relatively chaste so far, restricting their lips to only the skin naturally exposed by their uniforms. Maybe there had been a button or two that just happened to come undone but as long as he was under the roof of Downton Abbey, Charles Carson could not betray their trust in him.

Nor would he compromise her reputation, but Charles wasn't sure he would be able to wait another four months to make her is wife. He craved everything about her; her soft lips, her voice, her smiles, even her loving rebukes. If the family were not in mourning, he and Elsie would have been married by now. If Lady Mary did not need him, he might have happily eloped with Elsie the second he knew that she loved him. Consequences be damned.

Sometimes, during the day, the evening seemed so far off that she would seek him out in the wine cellar or he would find her in an out of the way corner upstairs for a quick kiss or even just a squeeze of the hand as she passed by. Some of these were the moments where they almost lost their sense of propriety and came very close to compromising the commitments they'd made to the family and each other. Almost.

It was a new sensation for Charles Carson to think about his own happiness and he was still not very good at it. It was easier if he focused on Elsie. His new devotion was to pleasing her in every way. Bringing joy into every day of her life would be his responsibility from now on. He would protect her, support her and enjoy her. Still, he could not simply throw off the habits of over fifty years.

He was a servant, from a generation where that meant something. He was proud of his position and of hers. Together, they supported a family, which supported a county, which supported a country, which supported an empire. At the bottom of it, there was the domestic servant. The British Empire would fail without the likes of him. He truly believed it.

Now, his love for her was more important than his devotion to the family, but he was a man with one foot firmly planted in two worlds; upstairs and downstairs; their world and her world. Both needed him. Both relied on him in ways he could never comprehend.

Charlie Carson had come to Downton as a boy, the grandson of the head groomsman, his parents unable to afford to feed him with a new baby on the way. His mother and the baby had died in childbirth and his father had left him at Downton to try and build a life. He'd left twice and returned twice but he had never left to work in another household. Carson could have wallpapered his pantry with the job offers that had been sent to him through the years. One offer even had the royal stamp on it. He'd written a very respectful refusal letter and had kept the envelope and letter as a souvenir. But, no matter the pay raises offered or the increased prestige offered, he could never abandon his family.

Charles had worried that his love for Elsie would detract from his devotion to his work, but it had not. Love is not like an apple tart, where giving some to one person means you must give less to someone else.

Love was like air, which the scientists claimed simply expanded to fill whatever space it was given. It was like water from a spring, freely flowing and from an unlimited source deep within him. And so he could, and did, love them both with a full and generous heart.

He looked up her body at her face, so lovely in the soft lamp light that they both preferred over the harsh electric bulbs. "When will the Lady's Maid notice be posted?"

"Next edition of The Lady, Lady Edith took it by the offices when she was in London last week discussing an article with Mr. Gregson."

"Humph." Charles grunted archly. He did not trust this Gregson character. He hadn't met the editor yet, but from Anna and Mr. Bates' description, Carson judged the man far too eager. And the experience with Sir Richard Carlisle had him wary of anyone associated with newspapers.

"Now, let's not go looking for trouble there." Elsie felt so badly for Lady Edith sometimes. The poor girl had the same luck with men that Isobel Crawley had with servants. They both so earnestly wished the best in everyone and were constantly disappointed. Elsie thought they should at least be glad that it was Edith being pursued, and not Edith doing the pursuing this time around.

Charles let the matter drop. He was playing absentmindedly with a small snag in her stocking at the tip of one of her toes. "I hope you find a suitable candidate soon. It shouldn't be hard to find someone more pleasant than Miss O'Brien."

"As unpleasant as she may have been, she was remarkably skilled, Charles. She won't be easy to replace." She kept her voice even, though she was trying not to giggle.

"Still, I hope it doesn't take too long. I don't want you and Anna getting over worked." She finally raised her eyes to his. No matter how often she looked at him, she could never believe the love and concern she saw in those deep eyes. When he was really worried about her, he had this way of pouting that made him look like a puppy dog that had just been yelled at. She could never resist that look.

She set aside her papers, retracted her feet from his lap and pivoted until she was sitting more upright. She reached a hand out to him and he took it. "We're managing. Lady Mary hasn't been much bother so Anna's been available to help with Her Ladyship. I'm only delivering breakfast most mornings. And even then a certain butler isn't even letting me carry the tray myself."

"Maybe he's just looking for an excuse to follow you around the house." Charles leaned into a reclining position into the space on the settee she'd just vacated.

"Maybe he doesn't need any excuse." Elsie rolled towards him; settling into his arms, facing him, her feet off the floor. "All he has to do is ask and I'd be glad to lead him anywhere." She tickled his ankle with her toe.

"And he'd follow you anywhere."

She decided to let him have the last word tonight.

A/N I am choosing to ignore most casting news or series 4 speculation. This is my own AU version of series 4, just because my mind can't stop jumping ahead. When September rolls around, Julian Fellowes may do with them as he wishes, after all, they belong to him.

This story is proving more difficult to tame than the last few. All reviews are welcome and help motivate me to try to improve with every chapter.

Also, congrats to all the Downton Emmy candidates. I thought Rob (Thomas) might get a nod this year because he had more action, but Carson is the glue that holds the whole mess together, so I'm glad Jim got the nomination. Maybe they'll give him a meatier storyline next series and he'll actually have a chance to win.