Mr. Carson's day was quite busy, though ordinary, which he counted a blessing these days. There had been a great deal of tragedy at Downton lately, and a day like today left him tired, but content. He would sleep well tonight. In spite of his weariness, however, he would not pass up his evening talk with Mrs. Hughes. There wasn't always wine left from dinner, but there was always a little chat.

"Come in, Mr. Carson," she said, greeting him before he could knock on her sitting room door. She was already pouring the wine, and she handed him a glass as he walked in and sat down. Mrs. Hughes took a sip of her wine, but did not sit down on the other side of the table. Instead she fiddled with knick-knacks on the shelf. "And how was your day, Mr. Carson? I hardly saw you downstairs today."

"It was a busy day upstairs. Nothing out of the ordinary, but you know as well as I do how some days are just more hustle and bustle than others."

"That I do," Mrs. Hughes agreed. She tilted her head to one side. "Mr. Carson, what have you done to your coat?"

"What do you mean?" Mr. Carson stood up and looked down at the front of his coat. "If something is wrong with it, it must be mended at once."

"It's in the back, where you can't see it. You'd better take it off and let me have a look," she said, setting aside her glass and approaching him.

"Very well," he answered, trying not to look at her as she helped him out of his coat. He couldn't avoid her scent, though, or the warmth of her hand on his shoulder. She took the coat and inspected it, turning away from him to get the light to fall properly on it.

"Sit down, Mr. Carson," Mrs. Hughes said, dismissing him with a wave of her hand. "Enjoy your wine. I'll be done in a moment."

He obeyed, taking his seat again and watching her as she fussed over his coat, examining it inside and out.

"Well, I think I must have imagined it," Mrs. Hughes said at last. "I can't find anything wrong with it. Put it back on and I'll have another look."

Mr. Carson stood and donned the coat again. Mrs. Hughes circled him slowly, tugging at the coat a few times and, for one very long moment, resting her hand on the middle of his back. What was she doing? he wondered, feeling rather warm.

"Well, there's nothing," she said with a shrug, when she had returned to stand in front of him. And then, very softly: "You look perfect."

For a few seconds they stood looking into each other's eyes before Mrs. Hughes turned away to sit down. The faint blush that rose to her cheeks did not escape Mr. Carson's notice. "I'll finish my wine now. I suggest you do the same. It's getting late, Mr. Carson."

"Indeed," he agreed.

They sipped in companionable silence and before long both stood up to leave the room.

"Good night, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson said, standing in the doorway.

"Good night, Mr. Carson."

"Thank you for always taking such good care of me," he said softly, watching her face.

Mrs. Hughes smiled at that, a wide, brilliant smile that made her eyes crinkle at the corners. Mr. Carson felt very warm all over and couldn't help smiling back into those lovely eyes. Oh, all of her smiles were wonderful, even the saucy smirks she directed at him sometimes when they argued, but this one was rare. She looked radiant.

Mr. Carson hated to end the moment, but after gazing at her for several seconds longer than he thought he should, he left the room. As he climbed the steps to the attic, he patted the letter in his breast pocket and felt it crinkle. He was sure it would soon be nothing but ash. He would tell her tomorrow; he would find the time. When Mr. Carson reached his room, he unbuttoned his coat again. Goodness, what if the letter had fallen out of his pocket while Mrs. Hughes was inspecting his coat? He laughed to himself as he took the letter from his pocket and placed it on the table. He took off his coat and hung it up, but returned to read the letter as he did every night.

As soon as he picked it up, he knew something was wrong. Three weeks of perusal had worn his letter considerably, but the letter now in his hand was crisp and unfrayed. He gasped when he looked at the envelope and found his own name, written in the unmistakable handwriting of Elsie Hughes. His heart pounded in his ears as he lowered himself into the chair to read.

My Dear Charles,

If you are reading this, there are two things you must know. I love you and I am not sorry.

I know you did not intend for me to read your letter while you still lived, but I found it on the floor in the passage downstairs. The envelope had my name on it, so what could I do but read it? It is in my pocket now, to stay with me as I work. I will most definitely read it again before I go to bed, but also before that if I have a moment to myself at any time during the day. Thank you for writing such a beautiful letter. I am glad this accident made it possible for me to read it and respond to it, in the manner your eloquence deserves.

I can't say precisely when I started loving you, or when I knew I loved you. As you said, it happened very gradually, over years of shared joys and sorrows, but we've now found our lives and our hearts intertwined. I can only look back and bless the day that I came to Downton, the day I met you.

Charles, you mentioned in your letter that Mr. Crawley's death must make us all think about how none of us knows when we will die. I have thought of that often since before that tragedy, since even before Lady Sybil's death. When I believed I might be seriously ill, my mind leapt with regret to all of the things I wished I had done, but I could soon see that such a train of thought was pointless. What I tried to do then was reflect on everything I had already accomplished in my life and, after I received the favorable report from Dr. Clarkson, on what good it was now within my power to do.

Here in our hands, Charles, is an opportunity to do something wonderful. We may not travel the world or do great deeds, but we can make one another happy. Can you think of many things better than seeing the person you love most in the world smile? I cannot.

I will be in my sitting room early tomorrow, before the others are up. Come and see me, Charles, and we will talk. You've been practicing for several weeks now and I daresay it's time.

I love you. I am not sorry I read your letter.

Yours,

Elsie Hughes

Mr. Carson couldn't help the foolish grin that crept across his face as he finished the letter. Yours, she had signed it. "She says she's yours, old man," he said to himself. "Yours!" What a clever lass she was, sneaking the letter into his pocket while she pretended to look for some imaginary problem with his coat. Mr. Carson chuckled. They knew one another's ways so well, but she could still surprise him.

To be continued...