I would be lying if I said the picture from the new Downton Abbey book featuring our favorite duo didn't influence me today. If you want to see the picture, search "#carsonxhughes" in Tumblr. It should probably come up as one of the more recent results. When you find the one of Mr. Carson holding a tea cup with a beaming Mrs. Hughes looking back at him, you might guess that it inspired a few lines below.
Elsie Hughes quickly headed for the post office, concerned about whether she could make the bus into Ripon. Mr. Carson had requested she acquire some stamps on her half-day, but only if she had the time. She hadn't anticipated one of her maids impeding her ability to leave that afternoon. Moreover, she didn't think she would have such a long chat with one of the local merchants. But she had made a promise to Mr. Carson and she was determined to keep it.
In reality, the chat had been most telling. She had listened with secret delight to the manner in which Mr. Carson had successfully resolved an issue between two merchants. Mr. Carson's efforts to further integrate into village society were bearing fruit. She couldn't be prouder.
With that thought, she headed into the post office with a small smile only to sober at the scene that greeted her. At the sound of the bell ringing when the door opened, the steady chatter in the background came to a jagged halt. Mrs. Wigan, the postmistress, had been holding court to a small gaggle of female villagers.
"Ah, Mrs. Hughes, good afternoon," Mrs. Wigan called out from behind her counter before looking at her court. The other women before her were looking down at the floor or out the window. They looked anywhere, except for Mrs. Hughes.
Though she was earnest in her effort to not feel like the housekeeper during her time off, she felt acutely that she was playing the ever stern housekeeper to these older versions of whispering housemaids. Something was afoot. "Mrs. Wigan, ladies, good afternoon," Mrs. Hughes responded serenely before going about her business.
The stamps secured, Elsie Hughes managed to arrive at the bus stop before her ride to Ripon arrived. As she waited momentarily, she looked towards the direction of the post office with narrowed eyes and a ghost of a smile. She anticipated a most interesting conversation with Mr. Carson that night.
The light was beginning to tinge a brilliant amber in the library as the afternoon wore on. While it wasn't his half-day off, Charles Carson took a moment to reflect on his time spent away from the abbey. He tried not to be distracted by the thought as he served tea to the family, but now he was alone. With each hour spent away from the abbey, Charles Carson had realized he desperately needed the respite – time away from everyone, even Mrs. Hughes, however briefly.
On some ventures, he saw the world that captivated the younger generations, sending them in droves from the great country estates into the factories and shops. Often, he engaged with members of the village, speaking to them not as a representative of the house, but as an individual. Though he did not become a regular at the pub or a steady participant in church activities, the villagers were noticeably keener to halt his progress through the village for a brief chat.
Small skirmishes were sorted with his observations and formal geniality. His abilities were not lost on anyone, least of all the village postmistress. Uncomfortable with the attention, he soon took to having others acquire stamps for him in the village. It was what prompted to ask Mrs. Hughes for assistance that morning. He smiled at the thought of her.
The housekeeper, no, the woman that was Downton Abbey's housekeeper, he corrected himself, would return later that evening. It had been quite a production trying to get her out the door earlier that day. She had selflessly suggested he use the afternoon to take his own time off before the guests arrived in a few days.
The thought was absurd and terribly generous of her. But he was having none of it. Unthinkably, he joked.
"It's alright, Mrs. Hughes. You don't have to admit that you simply don't want me around for a few hours every other week. I'll just know the truth in my heart," he goaded.
Her eyes widened slightly at his flirtatious retort. Every sense heightened and her cheeks were turning pink.
He would have crumpled at one more second of silence, beginning an endless round of apologies for his remarks. But she filled the void.
"Your heart can believe whatever it pleases, Mr. Carson," she responded with a breathless tone to her voice and small smile. Her eyes were brimming with amusement and anxiety. Fearing a retreat was in store, she bid Mr. Carson a good afternoon before securing her hat and heading out the back door.
The thought remained with him through the tea service - he hadn't wanted her breathless tone, her flush, to recede away. With that flippant remark, he had revealed Elsie Hughes, the woman. He endeavored to seek her out, to find ways to allow Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes to exist on the same plane, together.
The servant in his mind began to join forces with the individual growing within his soul, using his observations of her – now and over the years – to learn how to make her smile. The clues had been there for ages, but he had ignored them using the guise of professionalism and the open wound of his brush with young love. Now, he was just learning when and how such moments occurred. That he was deliberately responsible for some of those occasions that set her eyes glowing made every step lighter as he surveyed each room on the main floors.
Of course, he never wanted to push too far and set her on edge. Lord knows he was fully capable of eliciting her ire with a growl or a grimace towards the staff. Her fiery eyes, if it was possible, would singe his livery. But her glimmering eyes, full of warmth, were a visible feast that mixed dazzlingly with her light laughter, filling the air in his pantry.
Simply saying yes – to a few hours to himself every once in a while – produced that exact effect. Her warm, welcoming expression with his each departure and return was enough to keep his half-days a regular affair.
In turn, their conversations over sherry entered into a new dimension. Beyond the essential household matters needed sorting, they would discuss the pictures each had seen separately, comment on the quality of a dessert at a given tea shop, or provide directions to a new path or lane one managed to find amongst the familiar towns nearby.
Sighing, Charles Carson turned for the green baize door. He was pleased that his persistence led to Mrs. Hughes enjoying her half-days more frequently. Yet, it didn't chase away the feeling of missing her in the Servant's Hall at tea time. Her chair would usually remain empty and it took great pains to not look at it while the younger staff droned on about the latest band playing at the tea dance.
He didn't try to dwell on the faintly empty feeling. In fact he studiously avoided it. He only acknowledged the feeling often reoccurred during dull moments in London during the Season. But he did think with some optimism to the evenings when the staff went up to bed. Charles Carson and Elsie Hughes, not that they would ever address themselves in that manner, would have their treat and discuss their new discoveries. He walked downstairs, taking a steadying breath as he went.
Heading to the kitchen to secure a cup of tea, he was surprised to find Mrs. Hughes returned and dressed in her grey uniform. He waited to address her until Mrs. Patmore had busied herself and he had secured his cup and saucer.
"That wasn't much of a half-day, Mrs. Hughes," he remarked as he trailed back into his pantry. She followed his retreat, finding him standing just before his reading chair with his back to her.
"As you said, Mr. Carson, the house party is upon us. I couldn't justify being out any longer with the first guests arriving in two days."
As much as it disappointed him that she had to cut her outing short, he appreciated her professionalism, as always.
"It is, unfortunately," he agreed before turning to face her. His attention had been focused on preparing his tea and had missed her coming closer.
Her face was alight with an impish grin, a clever comment no doubt waiting on her tongue. He looked indulgently down into her blue eyes, a response already ready on his lips.
He didn't have long to wait. "Were you worried I didn't have time to go into Ripon to get you a dessert, Mr. Carson?"
His eyes twinkled in response. "Only partly."
"It's in my siting room," she finally admitted. He smiled before taking a small sip from his cup. "Aren't you interested in whether I got you your stamps?"
He sheepishly responded after gulping. "Ah yes, Mrs. Hughes. Thank you for that."
She stared at him appraisingly for a moment. Somewhat uncomfortable with her gaze, he turned to seek safety behind his desk. "I'll be happy to repay you over sherry."
"Sherry and a treacle tart, Mr. Carson."
He relaxed at the thought and her quick departure.
That evening.
Their treacle tarts devoured, Elsie Hughes decided Mr. Carson was subdued enough for the next topic of conversation.
The coins he owed her were traded without a word earlier. But now, Mrs. Hughes asked if the stamps were sufficient. His momentary weariness before responding affirmatively was all she needed to proceed.
"Mrs. Wigan was most revealing today," she began obliquely.
"Is that so," he asked with a faint of trepidation.
"Indeed, Mr. Carson. She asked after you when I bought the stamps. It would appear she knows the almost exact date for when you need a new book."
He didn't respond but for a raised eyebrow and a quick sip of his sherry.
"I think she fancies you."
He sputtered into his glass. "What?"
"You obviously heard what I said, Mr. Carson." She found absurd pleasure in the way he squirmed, his shoulder rolling perceptibly as he grappled with her observation.
"Mrs. Wigan is a…" he blustered to a halt.
Mrs. Hughes couldn't tamp down her obvious delight. "Yes, Mr. Carson?"
"Mrs. Wigan is a…"
"Pushy woman, Mr. Carson?"
"Yes," he answered and observed as he breathed through his teeth. It was with mild amusement that he realized he loathed the pushy woman in the village but secretly thrilled at the prodding of the woman before him.
"I don't blame you for not wanting to get your own stamps, Mr. Carson. She has been a widow for a few years now, and she obviously regards you, quite highly."
"Even so, Mrs. Hughes, that doesn't change the fact that I barely tolerate her presence."
"That's rather harsh," Mrs. Hughes remarked with guile.
His eyes widened as steam practically billowed out of him. "You just characterized her as a pushy, and yet I am apparently not at liberty to speak my own mind?"
"You have every liberty to speak your own mind, Mr. Carson. I am merely surprised at your decided thoughts on the matter. What has she ever done to you?"
He shook his head at her question. "I can't even believe we're having this conversation."
She tilted her head at his common retort to all things he felt uncomfortable discussing. "I couldn't say why," she said with a flick of her wrist. She looked and spoke flippantly. "We share things, Mr. Carson. It's not as if we're not…" she trailed off, nearly forgetting herself amongst their banter.
"It's not as if we're not… what?" He asked, daring her, afraid to fill in the blank himself.
She swallowed as she spoke the truth, her eyes holding his bravely, seriously. "Confidants."
His eyes lowered in contemplation as he breathed deeply. Repeating the word in his mind as if he were tasting and testing a bottle of wine from an untested vintage. It played about his mouth even as the word chased through his mind and soul. It defined them, trusted friends sharing everything and nothing. Yet, it was an incomplete characterization – that he understood in an instant.
The muscles of his face slackened at the realization. Mrs. Hughes was immediately concerned.
"Confidants." He cleared his throat before his features brightened again, mechanically. He forced a nod in her direction and even a small smile.
Mrs. Hughes sighed. Another hurdle crossed, yet another obstacle put in its place. Naming each other as confidants should have brought them closer. After all, the walls of her sitting room or his pantry seemed to be the edge of their own private world as their shared nights after a half-day off grew longer and longer.
Yet as he repeated "confidants," she could feel a new, invisible barrier between them. His forced smile confirmed it. It wasn't unwelcome necessarily, merely unknown.
Claiming mutual fatigue, their nightcap ended soon after.
In the coming days, the house party was in full swing, leaving little opportunity to explore whether the new barrier brought the confidants slightly closer or kept them further apart.
If you have the time, please spare a review. I'd love to know your thoughts about the new Chelsie demeanor in S5!
