While everyone else is busy coming up with insanely beautiful Christmas stories (which I love to bits!), my brain comes up with this… I should probably utter an angst warning. There are no spoilers for the CS in this!
Thank you kouw for once again being the most amazing beta on the planet!
It was a lone figure that made its way through the abysmal Yorkshire weather. Mrs. Hughes pulled her drenched woollen coat closer around her as the wind whipped more rain into her face.
It had been on impulse that she had asked for a halfday this morning. Her first one in nearly six months. Mr. Carson had been so surprised by the request that all he had been able to do was nod his assent.
She had needed out of the house, out of her position. Out of the stifling corset that being Housekeeper, being Mrs. Hughes, was. She needed to be out in the open, to walk. To freely decide where to go and what to think and when to cry. She had actually hoped for this kind of weather, torrential rain and howling winds. Anything that would help her feel alive and then numb her.
It wasn't really cold, not in late August, not even in the heavy rain. But she had been walking for close to five hours and exhaustion mixed with the heavy wetness of her clothes caused her to shiver. Her initial plan had been to walk until her mind was blank, until she'd finally manage to sink into bed and fall asleep without worries and dark thoughts eating away at her.
But now, hours later, she was faced with the realization that she'd be able to walk the whole length of Britain and the dark thoughts still wouldn't leave her alone.
Bitter disappointment mixed with overwhelming fatigue. Immobilizing concerns overlapped with a despairing feeling of loneliness.
"Come, Mrs. Hughes, this isn't like you."
The sentence kept reverberating through her mind. The way in which it was spoken branded in her mind. "This isn't like you…" Who gave him the right to judge what was like her when she herself wasn't sure anymore? Ten years… even one year ago she would have had a clear idea of what and who she was. She had been Elsie Hughes, proud Housekeeper of Downton Abbey. Self-sufficient woman, satisfied with her station in life, with its discipline and the opportunities it awarded her (being called Mrs., actually having earned that title through hard work, respected by peers). She hadn't cried about missed chances, about not having children of her own, no husband to look after. At least not often.
But that had been before. Before all the secrets, the worry, the fear and the heartache. Before she had come to realize that while people readily (and not so readily) accepted her caring, her gentle interferences, they were reluctant to reciprocate them. Reluctant because in the end she was nothing but the Housekeeper, nothing but a business venture. She had no right to feel this desperate about her Anna. Because she wasn't hers, had never been hers. She was Mr. Bates' Anna and that was why people fussed over him, lightened his workload, prepared his favourite dishes for dinner. He was allowed to be overwhelmed by worry and sadness. She wasn't.
"This isn't like you."
So what if she had – only for a moment – wanted to wallow in the tragedy of what was happening around her?
He had probably assumed that her tentative smile at the end of their talk had meant that she agreed with him. And she had been grateful; grateful that this time his words had at least been intended to be encouraging. Only later, only when he hadn't made an effort to get behind her broken musings, had her perception of his words shifted.
"There's no need to get sentimental!"
His words had been less harsh this time, certainly, but to her the message stayed the same. "Pull yourself together, Mrs. Hughes. I can't deal with this kind of behaviour from you. You need to be strong."
The only time Elsie Hughes had ever tried to imitate the fits of temper the upper class girls sometimes displayed in the village had ended with a hard backhanded slap across her face and wise words of her mother. "Elsie," her mother's voice echoed in her mind. "Stop this racket this instance, no one appreciates a weak woman. Crying and fainting is for the upper classes, lass. Our lot shakes these things off."
She had lived by them religiously.
Only now it was getting harder to pretend, to mask what she was slowly starting to see as her real personality. She didn't possess indefinite strength. Sometimes, sometimes she longed for someone to share the burden. Someone who made everything better for her, because he cared for her, because she didn't have to be invincible and unfeeling all the time. Someone to catch her when she fell. Someone who didn't see her as an opportunity for a business venture, as cheap labour for the farm, as the only woman who could be trusted to really keep a secret (and she had failed, even at that.)
She was only good and useful as long as she functioned in her role. She just wasn't sure how much longer she could keep fulfilling her duty. Sometimes she feared she'd snap and there was no one either willing or capable of picking up the pieces if this happened.
So she kept walking. Hoping that the rain whipping in her face would at least manage to numb her pain if it didn't manage to blank her mind.
In a flight of desperation (and she truly feared she was going mad) she wished for herself to slip, to break her neck, to end this downward spiral once and for all. To let all of them try and cope on their own. (They would manage, she was sure of that. They had done before she had entered their lives; they'd have no trouble doing so again after she had left it)
She stumbled over a tree root, caught herself (always left to catch herself) and shook her head in annoyance. She should head back before she went completely round the bend. With a little luck there'd be few servants downstairs at this time of the day. Sunset was only minutes away. They should all be in bed or at least caught up with late-evening duties. She'd be able to slip inside without anyone noticing.
She entered the Abbey quietly – only the sucking noise of her wet boots could be heard as she crept along the hallway.
"Mrs. Hughes!"
She stopped, closing her eyes briefly. Just her luck. The one time she craved solitude, he'd be there. She turned around to face him, tried to discern the look on his face. Indignation? Horror? Worry? She couldn't be sure.
"What on Earth happened to you?" he asked, his eyes raking over body as he took in her drenched clothes, hair plastered to her face underneath her hat.
"It's raining," she replied dryly.
"You look as if you've spent the complete afternoon in the rain."
She averted her eyes briefly, gnawing on her lower lip and his eyes widened in horrification.
"What on earth were you thinking? Get out of those clothes this minute or you'll catch your death," he thundered.
She looked back at him. How easy it would be to tease him. To say something about sounding risqué.
But what was the point? She was tired of this game between them, of the budding hope, the bitter disappointment. Interpreting meanings into his words that weren't there. Couldn't be there – because he still knew who he was and what his role was. It wasn't fair of her to blame him for being content with his life and its restraints.
She caught his disapproving glance as he took in the mud and water she had dragged in.
"I'll have this cleaned up."
"All your maids have gone to bed," he replied.
"I'll do it myself then," she exclaimed, annoyance creeping into her voice.
"No, I'll do it. You really need to get warmed up," he said and she felt some of her anger melt at his concern.
"Thank you Mr. Carson. But I'm sure five more minutes in the wet clothes won't kill me. It's not your job to sweep the floors."
"Well, I'd rather spent five minutes cleaning up after your mess than spend the next days without a Housekeeper because your stubbornness has landed you in bed."
Not concern then, simply practicality.
"Alright, in that case I will head up now. Goodnight, Mr. Carson."
"Goodnight, Mrs. Hughes," he replied. She didn't catch the worried look on his face as he followed her way up the stairs with his eyes.
There will be more (and at some point happier) updates. They should be fairly regular because most of the story is written and I want to have it finished by the time the CS airs (for obvious reasons). Reviews mean the world to me so please leave one if you have the time. Thank you!
