This is another offering for Chelsiefan71's gorgeous Unofficial Season 7 project. I had planned to write a second chapter for Let this be Enough but that chapter refused to be written.
This story has been sitting on my desktop since Season 5 has ended. I've made some adjustments so that this might – theoretically – fit between 6x01 and 6x02. It is my attempt at explaining the Becky storyline but is still (probably) heavily AU. The story will have three chapters and is not as fluffy as some of you might like (though it's also not too depressing I hope). I ask you to give it a chance.
I'm sorry for the lengthy A/N, please be rest assured that I'll not bore you like this at the beginning of every chapter.
Wounds
Charles Carson stares down at the large piece of apple pie in front of him with barely concealed delight. His second piece.
It almost allows him to ignore the indulgent smiles the female servants send his way. The Butler isn't sure how the rest of the servants found out about the discussion he's had with the Ladies of the House this morning but it is easy to forgive the gossiping footmen in light of the benefits the Butler has reaped for his kindness – including the second piece of his favourite dessert served to him by an emotional Cook.
In all honesty, he still doesn't quite understand what has happened this morning during the Family's breakfast. If he had paid more attention to the Ladies' conversation, he might not have been caught unprepared. Maybe he wouldn't have slipped and revealed that he had bought the house on Brouncker Road alone, that Mrs. Hughes had been unable to contribute.
It was only natural that the Ladies' curiosity should have been piqued by that – after all, the Crawleys paid higher wages than most and it had to appear strange to them that their Housekeeper had seemingly managed to squander all her money.
Charles had been forced to listen to them joking about gambling habits and secret children before he had been unable to take it anymore. He doesn't remember everything he has told the Ladies but he is rather sure that the words 'selfless' and 'saint' featured quite heavily in his short but impassioned defence of Mrs. Hughes.
When he had finished, he had been met with the wide eyes of Lady Edith and her Ladyship and a knowing smirk on Lady Mary's face. He's only glad that his Lordship and Mr. Branson have been away on business this morning.
Charles takes a deep breath and cringes when he imagines Mrs. Hughes' reaction. She'll, rightfully, not be pleased that he's been talking about her to the Family. He suspects that her Ladyship has already known about Becky's existence but that doesn't mean that Mrs. Hughes will not see the whole episode as violation of her privacy.
He's not had the opportunity to see his fiancé since breakfast. January is the month of inventory and she and her maids have been confined to the attics all day, inspecting boxes and furniture for mould or signs of mice, putting away Christmas decorations and noting down any broken items. Lunch was brought up to them in the form of sandwiches.
He has briefly entertained the hope that she might not have heard about the events of this morning but her maids are sitting around the table now and based on the looks they send him, they know exactly what has transpired.
Before long, he hears the staccato sound of her heels clicking on the floor and he sits up a little straighter, pushes the half-eaten piece of apple pie away from him.
She greets the other servants with a curt nod when she enters and he can immediately see that she is tired, exhausted even. Her tense posture causes him to tense as well and when she finally turns towards him, he feels himself holding his breath.
"Could you see me in my sitting room after I've eaten?" Her voice is strangely impassive, her eyes not really focused on him.
So he simply nods and excuses himself when Daisy enters to serve dinner to the Housekeeper.
It's an hour later that he knocks on her door and she opens it immediately, asks him inside and then closes the door firmly behind him.
"Sit down, Mr. Carson!" she orders quietly. The tight line in which her mouth is set lets him know that, unlike Mrs. Patmore, she is definitely not going to give him a reward for his kindness. "I think we should talk."
He accepts the tumbler of whiskey she presses into his hands, guesses that he will need the liquid fortification.
She is so tense and he had really hoped they would have moved past all of this by now. But he has violated her privacy and needs to face the consequences.
What worries him is the fact that she doesn't seem as angry as he expected. Instead she seems flighty, deeply uncomfortable – and that unsettles him more than any outrage on her part could have done.
"I heard about your talk with the Ladies today," she begins as she sits down and he cannot do much more than nod and wait for her verdict on his behaviour.
"There is something I need to tell you. I realize that I should have told you this a long time ago, but I lost the courage whenever I tried. I'm afraid you will need to rethink your words when you talk about me in the future."
He frantically wracks his brain trying to remember what it is he has said that she could have misconstrued. He had been worried that she'd be angry about his talking to the Ladies about her sister. However, he had not expected her to be displeased with his – honest – praise for everything she has done for Becky.
"I'm not….," she breaks off, glances around her sitting room as if physically looking for the right word. "… not the saint you make me out to be."
He scoffs at this, sits a little straighter. "Mrs. Hughes, I think that after twenty years of working together, I am more than able to judge your character and I can assure you that I meant every word I said today."
She can't help the small, touched smile that breaks out on her face. But it vanishes as quickly as it has come. "That is because you unfortunately don't have all the information."
He tries to speak up again but she silences him by putting up her right hand. "Please, Mr. Carson. I need you to let me have my say. Please do not interrupt me. I promise that you'll be able to voice your opinion afterwards and I promise that I will accept whatever you will have to say."
He tightens the grasps on his tumbler, his worry increasing.
"You told her Ladyship and Lady Mary that I sacrificed most of my life to care for my sister, but you are wrong about that. I sacrificed nothing."
His brow furrows in confusion but he keeps silent, forces his eyes to remain gentle.
"I told you that Becky was born not quite right in the head. I never told you more and you never asked… I assume out of some consideration for my feelings. The truth is that when Becky came into this world, she had her umbilical cord firmly wrapped around her little neck. She was already blue. The midwife thought she was dead, but when they had removed the cord and dried her off roughly, she suddenly began to take breath… Still, the damage had been done."
She pauses as memories flood her mind. Memories of the tiny, weird looking creature her mother had placed into her waiting arms. Even at barely an hour old, Becky had looked nothing like her cousins or the neighbours' babies had done.
"Becky remained utterly helpless for the rest of her life. She never learnt to walk or speak. She needed to be fed and changed, she required constant attention. Her moods were fickle. When she didn't like the food you gave her, she would spit it into your face. Sometimes she screamed in terror and no one knew what was wrong…" Again she breaks off. Allows herself a moment to remember the pain her younger self had felt at always coming second. At having to do her own work and that of her mother on the farm because Becky was no good for anything. The pain it had brought her whenever her sister had lashed out at her or – worse – her mother.
The fear and self-loathing she had felt the first time she had been tempted to hit her little sister.
"I began to… hate her." She closes her eyes. Can't bear to look at him now that she has shared her darkest secret with him. Afraid of the horrified contempt or the stunned disbelief she might find on his face.
Her eyes are fixed on her clenched hands in her lap when she continues. "My father died when Becky was 10. He was broken by years of doing it all on his own; by having the neighbours whispering about his lunatic daughter. I couldn't blame him for going.
I was 15 at the time and it became apparent that my mother and I wouldn't manage to keep the farm up and running. So we sold the farm and moved to a little cottage. My mother began taking sewing jobs from local women… most of them only interested in catching a glimpse of Becky to have something to gossip about in church on Sunday." She can't help the bitterness creeping into her voice.
"There were two possibilities for a girl like me. I could go and find a husband who'd help provide for us or I could go into service. The first option never appealed to me. Not that anyone would have wanted me…." She chuckles bitterly. "People thought Becky's condition must be hereditary; that we were either cursed or generally unfit to reproduce."
"The real reason, though, was that marrying would have meant living near my mother and Becky and I didn't want that. I didn't have the patience to deal with her fits. I didn't have the stomach to care for her like my mother did. I felt stifled by it all; by the constant consideration I had to show."
"So I ran. As far away as I could. Took the first available post in England and never looked back."
She startles when his large hand suddenly covers hers. The gesture pulling her back from her painful memories. She looks up and finds his eyes swimming with tears.
"You were very young when all of this happened. You can't blame yourself for having been overwhelmed."
Her sarcastic snort turns into half a sob as she removes her hand from his. She gets up and puts some distance between them. That dear man, still defending her, still wanting to believe only the best of her.
"I wish it were as simple as that. But I didn't change, did I? I only returned once while my mother was still alive and do you know what she said to me?" she asks quietly, almost accusingly.
He shakes his head silently, afraid that any further comment will destroy her carefully maintained composure.
"She told me that she was so proud of me, so thankful for my support, for sending so much money. And all that time I was in England thinking that giving up most of my wages was a blessing. That it bought me a way out of the oppressive atmosphere at home. Allowed me to enjoy the simple pleasures in life while my mother sat in that tiny cottage – alone and thanking the Lord for her helpful daughter." She feels the first tears of shame running down her cheeks, but she doesn't wipe them away. Figures that if her sordid tale doesn't put him off, neither will her tears.
"When you want to talk about a saint, you might want to talk about my mother. Do you know that she never once complained about her lot in life to me? Not once. When Becky threw something in her face, she wouldn't shout or abandon Becky's feeding. She'd simply wipe the resident goo from her face and continue. When Becky didn't indicate that she needed to relieve herself, my mother wordlessly cleaned her up. No matter how big Becky grew or how frail my mother became."
"Oh, I did hear her crying while I was home that one time… at night when she thought I was asleep – but I still didn't stay. When my week of leave was over, I packed my bags and left again – glad to be able to escape. I hugged my mother tightly and told her I'd be back but I never saw her again. The next time I returned, it was for her funeral a year later."
Elsie takes a moment to pull her handkerchief from her sleeve, dabbing at her eyes.
Charles has curled his hands into tight fists, his nails painfully digging into his palms. Unsure of how much more of her tale he can take before he breaks down in tears at the unfairness of life and the hand Elsie Hughes had been dealt. But he has promised he won't interrupt her and he will keep that promise. He'll let her get if off her chest, no matter how painful it is for him to listen.
"I packed up the cottage and moved Becky to her current home. She was nearly catatonic. I don't know how but she knew that my mother was gone. I had never seen her in such a state.
I was already at Downton at that point. Thankfully the whole thing happened during the season and Mrs. Winters was kind enough to give me a week off to sort my affairs. Dr Robinson helped me find the home at Lytham St Anne's." She remembers the kind predecessor of Dr Clarkson fondly. Recalls his gentle reassurances that the home, while extraordinarily pricey, offered the best possible care for people like Becky. "So I brought her to her new residence. Bought myself a few more decades of freedom by putting her into a care home."
"Before I left…." She stops. Takes a deep breath. She is so close to having confessed it all and she will not stop now.
She closes her eyes as she prepares for what she considers the worst part of her story, the last – most painful – bit she has to stitch up her wound.
"I went to see Becky again before I left. She looked at me, tears in her eyes and she grabbed my hand… as tightly as she never had before. As if she didn't want me to leave her as well. As if I was the only person who still held meaning to her. And I…." She feels the sobs building up in her throat. "I pulled my hand away, pressed a hasty kiss to her forehead and left."
She presses her hands to her face as the whole magnitude of her selfishness washes over her. She feels her knees buckle but she doesn't fall to the floor.
Strong arms catch her and pull her upright and then she is surrounded by him, safely cradled against his broad chest. She sobs against his starched shirt, barely able to catch her breath. Too exhausted and overwhelmed to moderate the noise of her crying.
He holds her as she cries her pain into the night; his own tears silently dripping onto the crown of her head.
With a start he realizes that this is only the second time he has allowed himself to draw her close. Apart from that one, that perfect first kiss, they have kept their professional distance. For a second he wishes that circumstances were different – that she was laughing joyfully instead of weeping bitterly.
But it is what it is and he is there and he can keep her steady and that is what he will do.
Charles tightens his grip when the scales fall from his eyes and he realizes why she has always been so intent on doing right by everyone all the time. Why she has helped fallen characters like Ethel and Grigg. Why she made sure that no one in the house has ever felt unloved or unappreciated.
She was atoning for her perceived sins. Giving others what she has never been able to give her own family.
"There you have it," she says when she pulls away from him some time later. Her voice hollow – empty like the rest of her. "Now you know exactly what kind of woman you proposed to. I will not hold it against you if you wish to reconsider your proposal. In fact, you probably should."
Against her resistance he draws her close again. Cradles the back of her head with his large hand.
"Never!" he whispers thickly into her hair and feels her sag against him.
He gently pulls back and she instantly rights herself.
"Forgive me, I know you must have things you want to say," Elsie says quietly; somewhat reassured by his hands that still rest on her shoulders.
He gives her shoulders a gentle squeeze, shakes his head. "Not tonight," he rumbles tiredly. He needs time to come to terms with what she has told him. He feels drained simply by listening to it all. Can't imagine what she must feel like.
"You need to get some sleep," he tells her softly. "But let me say one thing. There is nothing for me to forgive. Nothing you have told me changes my regard for you."
His voice is firm, his eyes honest, but she still finds it hard to believe him. How can he – a man of such upstanding morals – consider marrying someone as cold-hearted as her? How can he not see what a horrible hypocrite she is – always reminding him to be kinder to people when she has never been kind to her own sister?
But she's so very tired now and doesn't think she can bear more talking today. Best let him work through this on his own and face his decisions about them in the morning. When she's hopefully had some sleep and feels a bit more like herself.
So she simply nods and gives his arm a brief squeeze. She doesn't look at him again before leaving the room.
Misses the way his face and shoulders fall – the lone tear running down his face.
It's not as bad as it may seem now. I'd love to read your thoughts, so please (please) consider leaving a review. Thank you!