~October 1921~
Sarah O'Brien had always prided herself on being observant. Coupled with her analytical and clever mind, she always noticed everything. She had the ability to read people and situations and adapt to them. It was these skills that helped her be selected by the local chatelaine whilst still at school to become a ladies maid. Since then, she had learned to use her skills to her advantage.
Which is why she hated herself whenever she missed something that should have been obvious.
She had somehow completely missed whatever it was that was brewing between the butler and housekeeper. How she had missed this development was beyond her. How long had they been at it? It must have been a recent development, otherwise she would have noticed sooner.
However, glaciers moved faster then those two. Maybe she missed it because it happened so slowly. Like the frogs she and her brother used to catch that never noticed the water boiling. When the water temperature change occurred gradually over small increments, the frog hadn't noticed. But when they dumped a frog in already boiling water, it had immediately jumped out.
Maybe that was what had happened to her. Maybe the change in Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes' relationship happened at a pace that was too slow to notice.
Alternatively, she may have been too focused on other things that she neglected to realize that anything was amiss. But the point was moot.
Now that she had noticed it, O'Brien saw it everywhere. The way that Carson and Mrs Hughes stood a little too close when walking to church, the knowing looks passed over breakfast, the way she grabbed the crook of his arm at Mr Crawley's funeral...
Possibly the most scandalous behaviour of all, was the shared glasses of sherry at night. Everybody knew that it was the butler and housekeeper's daily tradition to meet at the end of the day and discuss house business, and as a result, nobody dared to disturb them. But going over households did not require sherry or laughing or offhanded statements layered in meaning. The discussions O'Brien had overheard over the past few weeks most definitely straddled the line of impropriety.
She had kept her observations to herself and slowly began to build a reservoir of information. Having the right information was key. Although O'Brien had no solid evidence that there was anything improper between the butler and housekeeper – everything she had witnessed was purely circumstantial – it did not mean that it was invalid.
She sat on her observations for weeks – collecting, organizing, and not really knowing how to proceed. It was on a cool autumn day when the beginnings of a plan had come to fruition.
She had just stepped outside for her morning smoke break. A cigarette hung from her lips as she searched her pockets for her lighter to no avail.
"Bollocks," she cursed.
The back door creaked open behind her. Turning to see who it was, she was surprised to see Thomas step out. For the past few weeks, he had been doing everything in his power to avoid her, and yet, here he stood. He lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply, leaning against the wall. O'Brien watched him in envy, and her frustration intensified as she searched her pockets desperately one last time.
"Need a light?" he offered.
Frowning in suspicion, she quickly took it in had and lit up before tossing his lighter back at him. "What do you want?"
Thomas raised an eyebrow. "What makes you think that I want something?" At her piercing look of disbelief, he relented. "Fine," he sighed. "I noticed some potentially inappropriate behaviour among the staff."
"So?" She took a drag, trying to remain aloof. "Let Carson and Mrs Hughes handle it."
Thomas paused. "That's the problem."
O'Brien closed her eyes and leaned against the wall next to Thomas. "You've noticed it too."
"I'm surprised you haven't had them sacked yet." The bitter undertone did not go unnoticed by O'Brien."
"I don't have a problem with either of them."
Thomas eyed her. "So you've considered it?"
"I don't know what good it would do," she snapped. "They'll be sacked, and then they'll be replaced. And that is much to risky for my liking."
God forbid Anna and Bates get the positions. She would never have any peace.
"What if we fixed who got the positions?" Thomas suggested.
O'Brien laughed humourlessly. She could not believe that after his promotion, he still wanted to climb up the ranks. "And why would I help you become butler?"
"Because it would leave an opening," he said simply. "An opening that could be the opportunity for Alfred to climb up."
O'Brien exhaled, a swirl of smoke escaping her. She could not believe she was considering this, but. career advancement for her dear nephew was not an unappealing prospect. "And of the housekeeper?"
He smiled at her interest. "I know a woman in need of a job – a Miss Phyllis Baxter," he told her.
"She a good worker?"
Thomas smirked. "And she has a secret that will serve us well."
On the odd occasion, Carson would overhear the conversations between the other staff and he could usually decipher the goings on from the bits and pieces. They were fast to clam up around him and he would raise a disapproving eyebrow and let it lie. They often forgot that the walls had ears (or maybe they haven't quite learned it yet). And the conversations they thought were only happening between them, were heard throughout the house.
Mr Carson wasn't stupid. He knew that many of the other servant's, especially the younger staff, viewed him as some sort of Other. He knew that they saw him as this imposing, mysterious figure in their lives. They knew very little about the butler; they only knew of his love affair with rules and honour and tradition. Mrs Hughes was the only one who ever relaxed enough to see a glimpse of the man who posed as a butler.
Very rarely did he let it bother him that the other staff – save for Mrs Hughes – were always on guard around him. Most times, he rolled his eyes and put a stop to the servants' stories before the threads they weaved started to spin out of control.
But sometimes it really did bother him.
"Don't take it to heart, Mr Carson" Mr Bates told the butler one day, when a passing comment had floated down the hall. "They really do respect you."
Carson had grunted his thanks in return. He did not show it, but Bates knew that he was grateful for the reassurance. Because knew that James – he refused to call him Jimmy – often expressed his discontent and frustration. He knew that Ivy hung onto James' every word, and that Alfred, and by extension Daisy, were annoyed by it, but they found it inexplicably riveting.
Though he'd never admit it, Caron sometimes enjoyed the gossip as well. Sometimes, he allowed his mask to slip, and he would let himself laugh. Behind closed doors, he let himself indulge and he and Mrs Hughes would share a drink and amuse themselves with stories that their fellow servants had so imaginatively created.
But Carson did not realize that this fascination with him made him a prime target for Ms O'Brien. He did not know how easy it was for her to whisper to the wind and let it carry her words. He did not know the extent of O'Brien's reach, nor of the newest rumours that spread like a virus throughout the house.
She delighted herself in ruffling feathers. Her own feathers were never still; beneath every one was a prying eye, a pricked ear and a wagging tongue. She flew from place to place, filling the sky, standing with her head hidden by storm clouds. She flew quickly, gabbling and screeching lies and half-truths to any that will listen.
She didn't need to say much. Just a few minute observations and a few seemingly innocuous comments. "Doesn't he look tired?"
To which she followed up with some variation of: "I wonder what he and Mrs Hughes do in her pantry all night."
And with that, imaginations ran wild.
"Mr Carson is incapable of love," grumbled Jimmy one day to the others in the kitchen. "If you ask me, he's too in love with tradition for any woman to have a shot."
"Nobody's asked you," muttered Alfred. Nobody seemed to have heard him.
"He is always so stern at breakfast, isn't he?" Ivy mused, her sympathies for Jimmy shining through. "I wonder if he knows how to relax?"
Daisy rolled her eyes behind the girl's back. "Looks like you're relaxing when you shouldn't be. Those eggs aren't going to mix themselves, you know!"
A blush crept across Ivy's face and she resumed her task.
"Mr Carson's not that bad, you know," Alfred piped up. His posture was a little bit straighter as feigned confidence, but his scarlet ears gave away his uncertainty. "He's stern but fair."
Jimmy's cocky grin fell at Alfred's words. "You're only saying that because he likes you."
"You're only saying that because he doesn't like you."
Before the confrontation escalated, Mrs Patmore appeared at the door, stomping on the kindling that was threatening to catch fire. "And what kind of work do you call this?" she asked in disbelief, causing everybody to scramble.
Mr Carson appeared behind her. "Are they giving you any trouble, Mrs Patmore?" His baritone voice cut across the room. Carson knew that the cook had it under control, but only he possessed the power to clear the room with one look.
When the footmen were gone and the kitchen staff no longer distracted, Mrs Patmore turned to him and sighed. "I don't know know if I'm getting more impatient as time goes on, or if they're getting more impertinent!"
"It might be a combination of the two."
"Well now I'm in no mood to help you." Mrs Patmore shot him an unamused glare and placed her hands on her hips in mock anger. "What do you want?"
"Did Mrs Hughes say when she would be back from the village?" he asked, trying to downplay his concern. "I need to talk to her about something."
"Soon, I should think," replied the cook. "She's been gone for hours."
"It looks like it's going to rain," Carson shook his head in an attempt to clear away his worries. Ominous clouds had rolled in and painted the once blue sky grey. "I'm sure she'll be fine."
Mrs Patmore frowned. Maybe there was some truth in those rumours she had been constantly dispelling. She wondered if they were even aware of their existence.
"What is it that you need to speak to her about on her day off?"
"It's a personal matter," he huffed. "It's really not all that important."
He turned on his heel leaving the concerned cook behind in his wake.
Not all that important?
Yeah right. And she was the Queen of England.
Carson had been right. It rained. That in itself wasn't an unusual weather event, but the combination of factors had made the Mrs Hughes' walk back from the village particularly horrendous. The temperature had dropped steadily every day as summer became a distant memory, and as a result, the rain was cold and the wind behaved violently. The wind blew against her, making her face turn red. Her hands were clammy and the tips of her fingers and toes were numb.
Mrs Hughes cursed as her umbrella flipped inside out for the third time. She fought to turn it the right way and snapped it shut. It was pointless. She was soaked through to the bone. There was no part of her that had not already been drenched. Her hat was a sopping mess on top of her head and did very little to protect her hair from disaster. Pins had fallen out a long time ago and the flyaway stands were plastered to the back of her neck. Her clothes were saturated with water and clung to her body with every move she made. With each step, her feet squished in her boots.
The hidden sun must have been hovering just about the horizon by the time she returned. She entered through the back door, her squeaky boots and clamoring teeth announcing Mrs Hughes' arrival. She leaned against the wall and undid her muddy boots with shaking fingers and tossed them to the side. It would do no good to trek through the house in those dirty boots. She would deal with them later.
Still shivering, she sighed and closed her eyes. She pulled off her ruined hat, tossing it in the same direction as her boots, and ran a hand through her tangled hair.
"There you are!" Elsie opened her eyes to find a concerned ginger woman with her hands on her hips. "You're a mess!"
Mrs Hughes rolled her eyes at Mrs Patmore's acute observation.
Mrs Patmore opted to ignore it. "I'll get Anna to run you a hot bath, and don't worry about the mess –" she gestured to her haphazard pile "– I'll get Ivy to clean it up later."
She sneezed in response.
Mrs Patmore blinked. "Don't you dare get sick!" She didn't think Mr Caron would be able to handle a case of pneumonia. She turned on her heel to leave and find Anna to get that bath started.
Much later, once Mrs Hughes had changed and was much warmer and reading in bed, there was a tentative rap on her door. Curious, she opened her door to find Mr Carson standing with a tray.
"You shouldn't be here." She was only stating a fact. She pulled her gown tightly around herself.
"You shouldn't have been out in the rain," he responded pointedly. "Without an umbrella, I might add."
She conceded that yes, maybe she shouldn't have been. So she took the tray with a small thank you and he slipped the hall door.
Despite everybody's best efforts, Mrs Hughes still got sick. It was not bad enough to make her bed ridden, and not enough for Dr Clarkson to be called. But her sneezing and her running nose was enough for Carson to be her annoying keeper.
She was not a child. She was a grown woman. She was not dying. She was merely afflicted with a pesky cold – it was hardly the end of the world. Mrs Hughes was still completely capable of fulfilling her duties. However, Mr Carson did not seem to agree. He took her load as his own.
It was utterly ridiculous. He was being utterly ridiculous. He had enough to do on his own. Mrs Hughes kept telling him that he did not need to be bothered with the household accounts. He did not need to keep bringing her tea every few hours. For goodness sake, he needed to stop thinking about her all the time.
Elsie Hughes wasn't stupid. She knew that her illness and Carson's reaction to it was fueling the fire that had inexplicably started burning in recent weeks – the rumours of her and Carson. The snippets that she had managed to make out painted a very scandalous, very untrue picture.
But perhaps there was a sliver of truth in the rumours that plagued the house. Perhaps Charles Carson could really love Elsie Hughes. Perhaps she could potentially really love him too...
Perhaps she already did.