Second year
(1903)
It has been a good year. Things have been calm and everything is as it should be. King Edward VII was proclaimed Emperor of India, the Dowager won the prize for the most beautiful rose at the annual flower show and the house the cricket match against the village. He even managed to score 78 runs in the first innings; a new personal record. It has been a good year indeed. Until yesterday that is, until Mrs. Winter chose Boxing Day of all days, to break her intentions to retire after the London season. She has been housekeeper of Downton Abbey for as long as he can think; running the household ever so smoothly, a stoic presence through garden and dinner parties, balls, births and funerals.
Her sudden decision to abandon the family is a shock to his system. He simply cannot imagine Downton without her and Mrs. Winter's suggestion that they make the Scottish head housemaid her successor makes him feel even more uncomfortable. It's not that Elspeth Hughes isn't a good worker, he's not denying that. Why would he? He prides himself on his willingness to admit facts when he sees them and pretending she is idle would be like pretending she isn't a beautiful woman.
Which is the problem, he thinks while he rubs the polishing cloth over a persistent stain on the silver candlestick in his hands. He has met his share of housekeepers during the years. In small houses and big ones, be they ghastly beldams or generous old birds; they all had one thing in common. It's simple and yet he feels it's one of the most important aspects of the art of good housekeeping: the position is the gender. They might wear dresses and bonnets - of course they do - but he has never considered a single one of them an actual woman. If they ever were, it was in a time long before they took the position, in another life maybe. At least he cannot remember or even imagine Mrs. Winter dressing up for her half days or going to village dances and fairs. It's not in her; it's not supposed to be.
Just like it is with the London housekeeper. Mrs. Evans, he suddenly realizes, would be a good choice, almost perfect. She doesn't know Downton, but she knows the family and senior staff. Vice versa he knows her and the way she works. They've coped with eight Seasons and he has had no reason to complain so far. Yes, he'll float the idea of Mrs. Evans and that will be it.
Satisfied with the marvelous solution he has come up with, Charles Carson puts the last candlestick into the wall cupboard, unties the green apron around his waist and stows it with the silver polish. He's about to lock the cabinet when there's a knock at the door.
"Ah, there you are, Mr. Watson", he welcomes Lord Grantham's valet and there's a satisfied hum in his deep voice. "Please make yourself comfortable."
"My, Mr. Carson, I haven't seen you this jolly for weeks", Watson states as he takes his seat, does so on the left chair as every evening, and puts his leather pipe bag on the table. "Is there any particular reason for your good mood?"
"There is. A very good reason actually, although it lies within a sad business. But pleasant things first – like this 1874 Chateau Mouton Rothschild", Charles explains and pours the dark red liquid from the decanter into the two glasses on the table.
The valet sighs contentedly. "I remember it, black currant and oak wood. One of the finest in His Lordships cellar."
"It is indeed excellent for a Deuxième Cru", he agrees. "But then Lord Grantham always chooses a noble grape when he's dining with Lady Grantham alone."
For a while both men swirl the Bordeaux in their glasses, smelling at it, taking the first careful sips, mouthfuls kept on their tongues, giving the wine the chance to display its full aroma. It's one of the secret pleasures of being a butler and being a butler's friend, getting to enjoy the leftover wine when the whole house is asleep already. Wines which have nothing in common with the sour swill served in Pubs, wines which no one of their social standing would ever dare to afford or even hope to taste once in their lives. And yet here they are, savouring their velvety reward after a long day.
"Now, Mr. Carson," Watson breaks the silence eventually and starts to fill his pipe. "Tell me everything about this sad business that brings you so much happiness."
He waits a moment before he replies. Partly because he knows it is big news, partly because he knows a pause will enhance the effect. "Mrs. Winter is going to retire."
He was right. His counterpart almost jumps up. "She can't be!"
"I'm afraid she will." He smiles and sighs then. Remembers this isn't an act, no curtain to fall and cover reality.
"I suppose they'll ask Mrs. Evans to fill her post?"
"If I have a word in it, they most certainly will. As of now," he growls, "Mrs. Winter is considering Elspeth to replace her."
"Elsie?" He sounds surprised, even flabbergasted. "I don't see how that would cheer you up, Mr. Carson."
"I can assure you it does not", he protests, although he knows Watson is presumably teasing him. He always does if it comes to women, simply doesn't grasp that Charles does not talk to them more than he has to not because he's intimated, but because he has no interest at all. Even if he hadn't been butler, he's had enough of them for a lifetime, to keep a safe distance. "But unlike you it took me a while longer to think of the London housekeeper. And since I did, I don't see why Mrs. Winter would insist on her choice. Mrs. Evans will do nicely."
"Of course she will", Watson agrees. "If she accepts the offer that is", he adds, lighting the pipe between his teeth.
Charles looks at him through the wafting smoke with knitted brows. "Why wouldn't she?"
"Mrs. Evans is a Londoner through and through. Downton might be too far off the beaten track for her taste. But even if she declines, I'm sure there'll be dozens of suitable candidates if you place an ad."
"Thus you think Elspeth wouldn't be a proper replacement either?"
The valet takes a puff of his pipe and stares into the fire. Charles knows him long enough to be able to tell that he's pondering his answer carefully. "I like her; you know that, Mr. Carson", he explains finally. "Not just because she's pretty and a good dancer, but given the fact that she's a woman she's a good interlocutor as well. I'd even say she's brighter than some of our footmen." Watson pauses, smelling at the Bordeaux again, taking a draught before he continues. "But while I think she'd make a good wife to a farmer or even a shop owner, I truly doubt she'd be able to do the accounts of a house like this."
"I see." Charles nods, unsure if he should be glad or not that Watson shares his opinion. It did not occur to him Mrs. Evans might not want to become housekeeper of Downton and establishing the idea of hiring a stranger could prove a challenge. Actually he's not sure if he likes it himself. Downton runs like clockwork. It does so because everyone is familiar with their place and tasks, they are because Mrs. Winter and he know the place like the back of their hands. It would take months, year's maybe, for someone new to understand the rhythm.
"You shouldn't worry unless Elsie accepts the offer", Watson interrupts him out of his thoughts, his statement leaving Charles bewildered.
"I can see now why Mrs. Evans wouldn't want to leave London. But why on earth would Elspeth decline?"
"She could still want to find a husband."
"She just turned forty-one, Mr. Watson. Even if she wanted, it's not very likely that she will. The only single men her age within a radius of 20 miles that I know of are Randall Miller, George Booker and the Hilbert brothers. And no woman could be desperate enough to marry one of them. That is", he continues with an amused smile; sometimes it's simply nice to turn the tables; "unless you intend to -"
He's not even able to finish the sentence before Watson's laugh fills the pantry.
"You should know me better after all these years. Like hell will I saddle myself with a wife, no matter how much I enjoy the company of beautiful women. And although she might not be seeing anyone from here, Elsie might have -", he pauses, shakes his head.
"She may what, Mr. Watson?"
"Well, you see, it could mean nothing and it probably does, but I had this very strange encounter during our stay at Duneagle Castle in summer", he declares. "I was running some errands in Inveraray when this man literally ran into me in front of the post office. He apologized and engrossed me in a conversation. Where I was coming from, what I was doing up in the Highlands, how long we would stay, all those kinds of things. At some point he told me he was the coachman of the neighbouring estate and he offered me a ride back."
"Doesn't sound like a very unusual encounter to me", Charles replies, wondering about the point of the story, wondering if his friend is just trying to distract him with random talk. "At least it's no reason why I shouldn't worry about Mrs. Evans not accepting the post."
"As I said, it could mean nothing. But something in the way he asked was out of the ordinary. I couldn't put my finger on it then but later, I realized he must've known the answers already. He knew exactly who I was and actually was interested in one answer only."
Charles is still not able to make heads or tails of the story, but it has his attention now, the butler even forgets the half raised glass in his hands. "Which would be?"
"The well-being of a former housemaid."
"I suppose it's safe to say, we're talking about Elspeth Hughes?"
"It is", Watson confirms and leans a bit closer. "And now I ask you – why would a coachman put such an effort into finding out how a maid was years after she left? Why would he even know she was working at Downton if he apparently hadn't had any contact since she left the place?"
"Are you sure you didn't mention Elspeth somewhere in the conversation and he remembered her then?" Charles puts down his glass, raises it again and drinks as he listens.
"Why would I have mentioned her? Sure, he asked me about Downton, if it was a nice place to live and work at. But I did not mention any names, I'm certain about that." He runs one finger over the edge of the table, takes a deep puff. "It was a pointed question, Mr. Carson."
"Even if", Charles snorts and gets up to throw another log onto the fire. Although he appreciates his friend's efforts to make him feel better, there's no point in it, no reason. "Some Scottish stranger questioning you about Elspeth is neither sign nor proof that she'll turn down the position and marry instead. No, Mr. Watson, I'm afraid we'll have to find a way to pitch Mrs. Winter to place an ad."
"You're right." Watson rises too and joins him at the fireplace. "Still I always wondered what it all was about", he says and taps out his pipe at the mantle. "Don't you?"
"Why would I?", he replies, knowing he sounds bitter, does not even try to hide it. He doesn't like where this conversation ended up, doesn't like that he's thinking of Alice Neal now, how he can almost smell her through the smoke of the wood and tobacco that lingers in the room. "He wouldn't have been the first fool to fall in love with a woman who has no interest in him. Probably he just wanted to hear how unhappy she was without him. For his sake I hope you told him she was."
To be continued
*Carson's 78 runs – I've no idea if it's good or bad or even possible for an amateur. I googled cricket and it's simply too complicated to want to try to understand it for a single number in a fiction. So, in this universe, Carson did very, very well and has every reason to be proud.
*According to episode 1x01 Mr. Bates' precursor was a Mr. Watson.
*(Deuxième) Cru – classification of vineyards in Médoc, France, since 1855. Scale was the average price per bottle within the previous 100 years. Château Mouton-Rothschild was labeled Premiers Cru in 1973.
*I wanted Mr. Watson to stare into a fire, hence I decided the cast-iron heating stove in Carson's pantry was not installed yet in 1903 :D
*Being the daughter of a crofter in the Highlands, having to help on the farm and probably do other jobs to support the family, Elsie's education would've been insufficient no matter how intelligent she was. There was no compulsory schooling in Scotland until 1872. According to my research most children attended Sunday Schools before and were thought a basic knowledge of reading, writing, ciphering and the Bible. Girls often were thought reading, sewing and cooking only in dame schools. Carson and Watson would've known a woman of Elsie's age and class wouldn't have been thought more than the basics. Plus some sexism – which wasn't even a word back then.
*Inveraray is a town at Loch Fyne in Argyll and Bute, Scotland. The local castle was used as the filming location for Duneagle Castle, the former home of Rose and her parents, and I mixed reality and fiction a bit. Actually Inveraray Castle is the seat of the Duke of Argyll.
*I know that I have a slightly unhealthy obsession with details ^^
Thank you so much for your lovely reviews, they make me smile. And, of course, thanks to wonderful Lindsay Grissom!
