A/N: Thank you very much for all your kind reviews and encouragement. I hope this instalment won't disappoint you.

Chapter 1

March 1903

The first dress she wears after being promoted to housekeeper is a dark, rich shade of green, bringing out the blue of her eyes as she looks up at him when they meet in the hallway outside the library.

"Good morning, Mrs. Hughes."

It's not the name he calls her by in his head. In his heart.

"Good morning, Mr. Carson," she answers with a small smile; there's a different quality to her voice now that she's in charge: it's a little lower, sitting comfortably in her throat, inspiring trust and confidence. He wonders if the others can hear it, too, or of it's just him, focusing somewhat involuntarily on every small detail that concerns her.

He nods, and she passes by him as she continues her rounds, keys dangling quietly at her waist. He tilts his head and lets himself listen to the sound, following it until it fades away in the distance.

It will become a habit of his before long.

May 1903

He's not impressed by the new addition to his "downstairs family", thinking her stubborn, foul-mouthed and arrogant. And above all, she smokes! Is that a quality one would look for in a lady's maid?

He complains about it when he visits the housekeeper's parlour one evening, sipping on his tea and letting the day slide right off his shoulders, dissolve in the soft shadows of the room that's warmer than any other place downstairs. He wonders if there's a chimney shaft running along one of the walls, or whether it's simply the presence of the room's current owner that keeps the temperature up.

She listens to him grumble for a while with patience and understanding, before she finally gives up and raises a hand, stopping his tirade mid-word. "I believe Miss O'Brien deserves a chance," she says carefully, not quite attacking his position, but bending his resolve ever so gently. "She's very good at her job, and she wants to be even better. She's already grown quite attached to her ladyship—why not give it some time, see how it unfolds?"

He purses his lips, puts the cup down on its saucer. "Don't tell me her devotion to the job made you like her despite everything else."

She gives him a calm, level look and stands up to gather the tea things up on a tray and take them to the scullery. "It's as good a place to start as any. I thought you knew that, Mr. Carson."

And he did; he does, of course he does. But perhaps he's not flexible enough to let Miss O'Brien into that scheme, to see her as a valuable member of the household. It might take some time for him to do so, should they choose to keep her.

Mrs. Hughes doesn't seem to have this problem. She looks past the irritating quirks, the not-so-faint smell of cigarette smoke on Miss O'Brien's dress, the cheekiness—and sees a strong-minded, devoted person who might become an asset to the family.

He wishes he had her sense of perspective, and wonders if his inability to adapt means that he's already on the road downhill, losing the whatever-it-is that makes him ticks, makes him a good butler.

When she touches his shoulder, he startles, not having noticed when she'd gone to the scullery and came back; she is standing next to his chair now, head cocked to the side and a strange mixture of sympathy, worry and connivance filling her eyes.

"Brooding does not become you, Mr. Carson."

He winces and looks down at his hands. "Forgive me, Mrs. Hughes. I should go now, it's getting rather late and—"

"I'm not saying Miss O'Brien is an easy person to like," she explains. "I cannot tell you whether she finds a proper place for herself in this house or not. I simply wish to give her a chance. Would we be doing her a favour if we dismissed her now?"

"From your phrasing, I gather the answer you want from me is 'no'."

This will come back to him one day.

Mrs. Hughes gives him a kind smile, perhaps bordering on coy just a little. "I only want an honest answer, Mr. Carson. No matter what it is."

"Perhaps we should hold our judgment for a little longer," he agrees, frowning, not quite sure whether she's in the right, but deciding to trust her all the same. "I think I'll turn in for the night. But I'm glad we had this conversation." And he really, genuinely is.

"Are you coming up as well?" He asks politely, wondering if he should—could—wait for her, hold the lamp to lighten her way in the darkness.

"Not just yet," she answers gently, "I still have some work to do. I'll stay a while longer."

"I've taken up too much of your time," he frowns, nonplussed.

She shakes her head, offers him another smile. She never seems to smile much outside of this room. "It was good to talk."

"Yes," he admits and clears his throat over a slight lump that has inexplicably formed in his throat. "Goodnight, Mrs. Hughes."

Her last smile of the day, at least the last one anyone sees. "Goodnight, Mr. Carson."

TBC…