"And to think Taylor's gone off to run a teashop. I can not think it will make for a very restful retirement, can you?"

"I would rather be put to death, m'lord."


The Little Teashop of Horrors

Charlie Carson glanced at his wrinkled hands in disgust while inwardly cursing his supposed friend once more. They'd been partners for years, and though they had never been rich, they'd always had enough to get by. Now they were well and truly broke, their hard earned money underhandedly pilfered and wasted on a bad bet. How many shows would it take to recoup their losses? And how long before Grigg would throw it all away again?

The questions swirled around in Carson's mind as he observed his partner, hands plunged in the soapy water that refused to stop sloshing out of the large basin, and humming a merry tune that did nothing to improve Carson's mood. It had been painful to watch his friend spiral down from a foolish youth to a deceitful and spendthrift man, but this latest escapade had at last convinced Carson that it was time to end this partnership, and get off the train before Grigg derailed them both.

Upon capture, The Cheerful Charlies had been summarily seized and roughly dragged to the kitchen at the back of the shop. The manhandling had been awkward enough to bear, but Carson only now felt the true evil of their situation; held prisoner over the large washbasin, forced to pay off their meal by way of physical labor, and helpless to resist in the face of such perverse consequences that the cook so ably outlined.

Their ever-present sentinel stood nearby, working his way through a massive pile of pastry dough, his red stained apron turning pink with the dusting of flour. Carson had been content to perform his duties in somber reflection and silence, but Grigg's conscience had always been the less sensitive of the two, and his mind was not so troubled as to preclude conversation.

"Do you do any butchering here, then?" Carson heard his friend ask.

"No."

"Then what happened to your apron?"

A hard thwack of dough on wood was the only reply the cooked deigned to give. Carson gave Grigg a hard stare, willing him to keep his mouth shut and leave well enough alone. His silent admonition was cut short, however, when another wave of suds made its way over the brim of the sink. Carson shifted back, but his mistimed precaution failed to save his apron from getting thoroughly soaked.

"Not scared of a little water, are we?" a gruff voice bit out as another glob of dough was slapped loudly onto the counter.

"Not at all."

"Then get back to washing!"

Carson could only grab another teacup from the mass that remained, stacked up before him like a snow-capped summit, and begin to scrub. The white columns teetered dangerously, an avalanche of porcelain threatening to crash down with the slightest nudge. He observed the dainty vessels as he cleaned them, the curve of the delicate handles fastened so precariously to the fragile cup. Truly despicable contraptions, he had always thought. Practically designed for maximum discomfort and optimal chipping ability.

An unchanging grimace sat on Carson's face while he continued to work diligently on the dwindling pile of dishes. His hands grew weary with the tedious work, and his eyes even more so. His vision was beginning to blur with the unwavering image of the dirty dishwater, and at length he allowed them to wander to the shelves directly above. Carson was surprised when they landed on a beautiful silver teapot, a singular mark of refinement that seemed out of place in the hot and dirty kitchen. An involuntary smile crept into the corners of his mouth. Now this was a piece of tableware he could approve of! Strong. Sturdy. Dependable. It obviously wasn't used in service, and Carson imagined that it must have been a gift bestowed upon the owner from some benevolent and wealthy benefactor.

He leaned in to get a better look, but was interrupted when the proprietor of the tearoom, Miss Lucy herself, ran frantically into the kitchen.

"Here we go," anticipated the cook with resignation. "What is it this time, Lucy?"

"Have a care, John, and save the tone for someone who doesn't pay your salary!" she tartly replied. "We've got a real emergency!"

The beleaguered cook's eyes shifted upwards. "Isn't it always?"

"It's Abigail and Louisa!" she exclaimed, tossing her hands in the air dramatically. "They've both gone off, Lord knows where, and now we're left without any servers!"

"A whole lot of nothing those two do, even when they are here," the cook calmly replied, his hands never stopping from their steady work on the large pile of dough. "Don't see nothing to fret about; you've managed just fine without their help before."

"Not now, " she wailed, "not at the afternoon rush!" Her hands flew to her head, grabbing her hair and pulling fiercely at the curly strands. "We've got a frenzy of customers coming in, and they'll not be best pleased with a long wait."

"I tried telling you those two were no good for the job," the cook reminded her while rolling out another crust.

"I could do without the attitude, John," she snapped, rounding on the cook with wide, savage eyes. "What I need now is a solution!"

With a long-suffering sigh, he inclined his head towards the two indentured workers. "You'll have to settle for these two, then."

Carson had hitherto watched the ensuing argument in bemused silence, but was roused to shock at the cook's words. The look on Lucy's face told Carson that the cook's suggestion was just as repugnant to her as it was to him. The Cheerful Charlies? Front of the house? Serving? The very idea of it boggled. His partner, on the other hand, seemed to find nothing strange in the new commission of duty.

"Course we can do it!" Grigg said excitedly. "Me and Charlie here would be happy to help you fine people out. We're performers, after all. We can do almost anything!"

"Begging your pardon, miss," Carson cut in hastily, "despite what Charlie here may say, the truth is we've no experience serving, and I don't think we'd make a good go of it. Like he said, we're performers. Singing and dancing are all we know, and I'm afraid we'd only end up making things worse for you."

Lucy's brow furrowed at his confession, and she bit her fingernails in agitation, weighing her options. She paced up and down the short length of the kitchen, and with one final glance heavenward, as though in supplication of the Almighty Himself, she sighed despondently and said, "There's nothing for it. We're really left with no choice. You may not like it and neither do I, but you boys will have to act as servers."

Carson remained firm. "I'm afraid I really must refuse," he insisted, drawing himself up with as much dignity as he could muster in a sopping wet apron.

He felt a dark presence behind him. "You'll do as the lady says," he heard the cook's low voice breath dangerously down his neck, causing his hairs to stand on end and his mouth to go suddenly dry.

Carson gulped. "I…of course we will."


Right. Left. Right. Left.

Carson repeated the mantra in his mind, a wobbling tray clenched in a deathlike grip between his hands. The tray's contents, a few plates of sandwiches and a pot of steaming tea, clattered nervously with the tremors that radiated down his arms.

Nice and steady. One foot in front of the other.

He'd never imagined the difficulty behind the seemingly effortless task of delivering a tray of goods without promptly dumping it all onto an unsuspecting customer's lap. There were a thousand things to think of at once: keeping the tray balanced, watching his footsteps, remembering for whom the order was intended, and avoiding the pitfalls and hurdles that marked the way from the pick up counter to the final destination.

Right. Left. Right. Left. ROLL YOUR FEET!

His ragged breathing was making him increasingly light headed, and his neck itched with the beads of perspiration that trickled down his nape and soaked into his rapidly wilting collar. Carson felt sick from the lack of oxygen and the horrifying image of irrevocable sweat stains implanted onto his finest shirt. Knuckles already white, he gripped the tray even harder, forcing his hands to remain in place rather than take up his handkerchief and alleviate his discomfort.

He kept his eyes fixed on the intended target, a party of three seated at the far end of the teashop only several yards away. In truth it was a very short distance, but to Carson's perception insurmountable. Every long cane, errant limb, frilly parasol, and oversized hat had morphed into a barrage of obstacles bent on felling him with every step.

He stopped in his place and attempted to steady his breath and calm his nerves. What was this but any other performance, any other show? How many people had he pretended to be over the course of his career? He could be, nay, had to be, yet one more, without falling to pieces. He was Charlie Carson, and whether he was belting out the last chorus of Champagne Charlie or acting as a waiter in a mediocre tearoom, he would do it and do it well.

The internal pep talk brought on a fresh wave of determination and focus. He leapt gracefully over the carelessly placed cane, nimbly ducked under the long arm of a stretching gentleman, deftly side-stepped the parasol of a yawning woman, and narrowly dodged the tilting hat atop a laughing lady's head. He set the tray down on the table to the delight of the seated patrons, ensured they had everything they needed, and moved shakily back to the counter to pick up his next order.

The first ordeal was over, and Carson breathed a sigh of relief. He had felt not a small measure of injustice when told that he would act as waiter while Grigg was given the less intimidating task of clearing and setting the empty tables, but now that he had survived, persevered, and even excelled at his assignment, Carson was eager to continue his most challenging performance yet.

The second order came much easier, the third even more so. As the minutes and hours ticked by Carson was growing more and more comfortable with his new and involuntary position. He floated through the shop like a veritable Hermes, conveying his wares in an elegant and dignified manner that, while earning him no favors on the stage, were received with pleasure and appreciation by the guests of the tea shop. His efficiency had even earned him a few minutes reprieve, no small feat in a teashop as busy as Miss Lucy's, and Carson sat down in a nearby chair to rest his aching feet, until alerted by a nearby voice.

"You're not half bad at this."

Carson looked over to see Miss Lucy, arms folded and leant up against the counter, a quirky smile perched on her mouth that wavered between amusement and admiration. Although he still ardently disapproved of his conscripted service, it was with some difficulty that he suppressed his own burgeoning smile at her comment. He was still human, after all, and not entirely immune to praise.

He walked over to her and leaned his tall frame closer. "It is strange," he mused, "but I don't half mind doing it." The smile could no longer be restrained from his face, and by the time he had finished his remark he realized that he was beaming.

"Oh yes!" she heartily agreed. "You seem to be doing quite well out there, for someone with no experience."

Carson was not quite ready to admit that he actually enjoyed his compulsory employment, and chose to change the topic. "Have you been here long?" he asked.

"Oh no, not very long," she answered. "Only a few years. I used to have a post in service at Downton Abbey."

"Downton Abbey?"

"Oh, do you not know it? The seat of the Earl of Grantham? It's not far from here, just a few miles from the village."

Carson accepted her explanation with a nod and she continued.

"Well, I was there for a good while, as kitchen maid, until Great Uncle Lionel died and I got the money to purchase this place." Her arms swept out majestically in presentation of the bountiful gifts to be had from familial expiration, her joyful eyes and glowing cheeks an indication that she felt Great Uncle Lionel's sacrifice well worth the reward.

Carson tried to hide the shock from his face at the admission. He marveled at the idiocy of one who could trade in a life surrounded by beautiful things and beautiful people to spend every day in a place that had only ever brought him much misery and regret. He wavered between a polite response or being true to himself, but was spared a decision when Lucy continued.

"I know it's not much now, but I'll get her fixed up right, you'll see," she said with animation, balling her fists in a fighter's stance to prove to Carson her determination.

She had passion, Carson was forced to admit. He admired her temerity, but thought it was ill spent on something as appalling as a teashop. He shrugged his shoulders in lieu of a reply, and was grateful when the cook rang the bell for the next pick up, scurrying him off obediently.

Exclamations, proclamations, conversation, and laughter all flowed together to fill the air space of the tiny shop. It was a continual hum that Carson had by now grown used to, punctuated only by the jingling of the shop bell that never seemed to cease. Busy as he was, and awash in the white din of chatter, he took no note of the bell that sharply tinkled once more, but looked up in confusion and surprise when every voice in the shop abruptly stopped.

Imperious would be too soft a word to describe the person who stood sneering in the doorway. The woman was positively mythic. A tiny waist corseted beyond anything Carson could call reasonable, a pert and gaudy bustle seeming to defy gravity itself, all topped off with a hat of such epic proportions as to be virtually plucked from a milliner's wildest dream. Carson had never seen her like in any of his long travels, and quelled a slight trembling in his hands with the frightening knowledge that he'd actually be forced to serve her.

"Your ladyship!" Miss Lucy cried, breaking the silence and rushing forward to meet the noblewoman. "I wasn't expecting you!"

Like a clap of thunder, Lucy's welcome had dispelled the calm and recommenced the squall of idle chatter and talk from before. The happy customers went back to enjoying their teatime, and ignored her Ladyship as best they could.

"Good afternoon, Lucy," her Ladyship replied. Her eyes took in the humble shop with a glint of displeasure. "I told you I'd come to visit your little venture, and I'd like to be known as a woman of my word."

"I suppose, m'lady. Course that was rather a long time ago and –"

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry. Is my presence here somehow unwelcome?" her ladyship asked, in a tone that contained no apology and would brook no argument.

"No, no, of course not, m'lady," Lucy quickly sputtered. "It's an honor to have you here, whenever you please. Let me show you to a table."

"Yes, thank you," her Ladyship sniffed. "It's a pleasure to finally be here." Her sentiment was polite enough, but her curled lip said otherwise.

Lucy led the noblewomen to a table in the middle of the room, and beckoned wildly to Carson. He let go a breath he forgot he was holding, momentarily swaying with the rush of oxygen to his head and the foreboding thought of the eminent introduction to her Ladyship. With one final straightening of his waistcoat, he made his way over to meet the inimitable lady.

"This is Charlie – Charles – Carson, m'lady. He'll be taking care of you," Lucy explained, turning towards Carson. "Charles, this is the Countess of Grantham, my former employer. You'll make sure she has everything she needs."

"Of course, Miss…Lucy," Carson stuttered, realizing too late he had no idea of her last name. Lucy held back a snarl at Carson, smiled graciously at Lady Grantham, and finally took her leave of both.

Palms sweating, Carson cleared his throat, unsure of what to say. He'd never been this close to an aristocrat before, near enough to actually smell the perfume wafting from her neck and see the slight sheen of moisture on her forehead. He had a reasonable suspicion that women such as the Countess wouldn't be at all averse to a compliment or two, and decided to open with just that.

"I'd just like to begin by expressing what an honor it is to serve you, m'lady - " he began magnanimously.

"Yes, yes, of course," Lady Grantham said with a wave of her gloved hand. " Let's dispense with all the groveling, if you please, I'm incredibly thirsty."

Carson shut his open mouth in confusion, letting the rest of his prepared accolades go unfinished. "And what will you have, then?" he asked instead.

"Some tea will do just fine"

"Anything else, m'lady?"

"Oh, bring me whatever you like," she answered, opening a small fan and flapping it furiously. "It doesn't really matter; I won't actually be eating anything from that kitchen."

Carson's face didn't alter from its mask of humble serenity, but his ears imperceptibly perked up at the unapologetic statement. He couldn't deny that he was quickly becoming quite fond of her Ladyship. After a life filled with grandstanders and show boaters, he found her plain and uncompromising manner refreshing, and before he realized what he was doing he leaned over and whispered conspiratorially, "I understand completely, m'lady."

"Oh do you?" she asked, putting down her fan. She arched an eyebrow and turned her head slightly to rest her gaze on Carson, as if seeing him for the first time. "Then I suppose you, too, must have had the pleasure of meeting John the cook."

Carson pursed his lips to keep them from quirking upward. "I'm afraid I have had that pleasure, m'lady."

Lady Grantham gave Carson a penetrating look, boring through his inscrutable features to find the measure of the man within. "I think you and I shall deal quite well together, Charles," she decided before fanning herself again.

Carson's heart skipped a beat at her compliment, and he gave a silent prayer that she wouldn't notice the rosy hue spreading uncontrollably across his cheeks. He acknowledged her condescension with a slight bow and went quickly off to give the cook her order.

"A pot of tea and a few scones," he informed the cook. "And bear in mind that this order is for her Ladyship."

The cook stared at Carson with indifferent, half-lidded eyes, and he went on about his culinary business without any increase to his speed or efficiency. Carson stood nearby with folded arms and tapped his foot in impatience, for he would not dare attend to any other customers till the Countess had her desired drink and he ensured that she was entirely satisfied.

His eager anticipation of another encounter with the Countess claimed Carson's full attention while he waited, but it was soon diverted by a commotion that erupted from across the room. He heard Grigg shouting loudly and unintelligibly. Looking over, he saw his partner shaking like a leaf, his face flushed crimson with rage. He couldn't see whom Grigg was yelling at, but he recognized the voice as it shouted back. The accents were unmistakable, the high-pitched and nasally tone indelibly branded into his mind; it was a voice he would never forget, and one that he would know anywhere.

"I don't know what you're yelling at me for! I told you it was a tough crowd!"

Madame Claire. She of the horrible juggling. The performer whose gross lack of talent had stripped The Cheerful Charlies of any future employment at Downton Village.

Carson hadn't noticed the juggler enter the teashop amidst the pomp of the Countess' grand entrance, and surmised that Grigg must have spotted her while clearing a nearby table. Her presence didn't bode well for the calm end to a hectic day that Carson had been dreaming about, and he speedily made his way over to the arguing pair in a vain attempt to stem the tide of hot words that flowed between them, and assuage the curiosity of several close-by customer's who were beginning to take interest in the proceedings.

He placed a firm hand over Grigg's mouth, effectively muting the shorter man, and giving Carson a chance to reason with him, to explain that though it was her ball they had tripped over, she wasn't completely to blame for the downfall, both literal and figurative, of the duo.

Carson knew Grigg would hardly see matters in as judicial a light, but didn't expect the hard press of teeth on flesh that followed. Carson gave out a loud yelp and nursed his wound, while Grigg continued to cast aspersions on Claire's character such that would make even the hardened cook cringe with disgust.

"You're not going to let him talk to me that way, are you Henry?" Claire suddenly and inexplicably asked.

Carson forgot his pain for a moment, and The Cheerful Charlies looked at each other in confusion. "Henry? Who's Henry?" asked Grigg, briefly knocked off target by the question.

"I am," wheezed a gentleman just approaching the table. Even if Carson hadn't recognized the voice, his round figure was impossible to forget, and though his hand was throbbing in pain and his head felt tighter than a well-tied corset, he did feel a small measure of gratitude that he finally knew the stage manager's name.

"And you're absolutely right, my dear," Henry chivalrously continued. "I won't allow this talentless hack to insult you."

"'My dear?'" repeated Grigg. His eyebrows raised and his jaw lowered as the pieces slowly began to fall into place "Well now it's all starting to make sense. You'll do away with our act, but not hers?"

"My music hall, my decision," said Henry with a smug smile. "Now, why don't you go off and fetch us a plate of sandwiches?"

"Oh, I'll 'fetch' you something, all right," Grigg answered, low and menacing, as he reached for a particularly gooey tart that sat oozing on a nearby plate.

Henry's lips became a thin line, and his uni-brow narrowed like a bending caterpillar. "You. Wouldn't. Dare."

"Ha! And my name isn't Charlie Grigg!" he exclaimed, chucking the half-eaten tart at Henry while Carson stood by helplessly. The pastry whizzed through the air, trailing a thin line of delicious raspberry filling in its wake. Grigg grinned in unabashed delight, but what he didn't count on, however, was the deceptive agility that Henry possessed despite his figure, and his ability to deftly duck just in time for the tart to fly over him and smack clean into the back of a rather tall gentleman's head.

There was a silent interlude as every conversation in the teashop instantly stopped. Said tall gentleman rose from his chair, painstakingly slow. As if hypnotized, every eye was targeted on the gentleman's head that was currently inching upwards, splatters of rich filling dribbling down his neck, and therefore no one noticed the slender hand that reached for an éclair set on the table beside him.

"That…was a mistake," he hissed.

Without another word the éclair was pitched in the reverse trajectory of the tart and zoomed with alarming speed towards Grigg's panicked face. He looked right. He looked left. At the last second before impact he swiftly dived head first into a table at his side, effectively saving him from an ignoble éclair-whacking, and with the double benefit of the creamy pastry smashing indelicately into Madame Claire's face.

The loud crash of Grigg hitting the table and the outraged cries of the guests seated there failed to drown out Claire's indignant huff. She quickly took up several moist looking cakes, charging towards the gentleman and juggling the desserts in a giant pinwheel of pastry. Laughing maniacally, she began hurtling them one by one at his face as each slice came to the end of the rotation and entered her hand.

Unfortunately, her aim was nearly as bad as her juggling, and each cake missed the gentleman by a wide margin, only to land haphazardly on the suddenly less entertained customer's seated within range.

Chaos was escalating at a frightening rate, and before long Carson was horrified to realize that every body in the quaint tearoom was engaged in a spectacular food fight. His occupation being what it was, this was by no means Carson's first battle involving food, and at once his instincts took over. Dodging slices of pie and ducking under dainty tea sandwiches, he could hear the horrified gasps and mortified proclamations of the less practiced participants.

"How dare you!" someone shrieked.

"I say! Rather bad form!" a young man admonished.

"Mmmm…chocolate!" Henry rhapsodized.

"MY TEA SHOP!" Lucy wailed uncontrollably.

Carson looked over to see Lady Grantham, serenely seated in her chair and completely immaculate, still cooling herself with her painted fan. Like the eye of a tornado, the chaos swirled around her, without even a single drop of cream or splatter of frosting entering her cone of fortitude.

So mesmerized was he by contrasting sight that he failed to notice the chunky scone headed straight for his temple. It connected with a painful thwack that jolted him out of his stupor, and once again gave awareness to the lunacy taking place around him.

A parasol-wielding lady batting out round after round of pastry with the accuracy of an accomplished cricket player.

Two gentlemen alternatingly dunking each others faces into an assortment of cream pies that Carson didn't even know were on the menu.

Madame Claire, who was obviously a much improved juggler when angry, continuing her rapid fire of cakes out of her quick hands.

The surrealism of the moment did not escape Carson, and he briefly wondered if this could all be some kind of freakish dream. Everywhere he looked were flailing bodies and flying foodstuffs, both of which occasionally beamed him indiscriminately on varying parts of his person. There seemed no friend or foe in the struggle; it was every man for himself, a fight to the finish where only the last man standing could be crowned champion.

"John! You must do something!" Carson could hear Lucy prevailing loudly upon the cook. He neither saw nor heard the cook's reply, and just when he thought there could possibly be no end to the madness, a deadly voice bellowed out loudly that caused his blood to freeze.

"Everybody! Put down your scones!"

The order reverberated down the length of the shop, and the whole room was immediately frozen; the only exception a full plate of cakes that was currently sailing straight for the Countess of Grantham's face. That redoubtable lady didn't move an inch, but simply stared at the oncoming missile as if daring it to actually make contact with one such as she.

It was apparent to Carson that a few seconds would finish the whole business. An overwhelming feeling of protection immediately overtook him, and he ran towards the projectile as fast as he could, praying to God that he would make it in time.

One…

He could feel each heartbeat acutely, the whole organ threatening to burst from his chest.

Two…

He increased his stride to breakneck speed, every sinew in his body stretched to the breaking point.

Three…

He saw that he would by no means make it in time to stop the collision, and with a mighty jump and lunge flew straight into the platter's path, and caught the plate in his outstretched hands.


So I guess I was mistaken. There will actually be one more short chapter after this wrapping everything up. I never intended to write anything this long (what the heck, Carson!). I know there may not be things like pies and eclairs in traditional Victorian teashops, but...eh whatever.