A/N: A Charles and Elsie chapter again - but we've not yet come to the end! Hope you'll enjoy - don't hesitate to review!


1.

Lady Mary has asked him to sit and he wanted to say he was fine, that he preferred to stand, Milady (and didn't she know that, hasn't she known that for long years now?), but the pointed look she gave him made him choose a seat across from her and carefully lower himself.

He's knees click, the soft chintz chairs are lower, softer, deeper than he is used to. He knows she has heard it, hopes he can get up later when he is dismissed.

He listens respectfully, hears only every other word because he worries that she is downstairs in her parlour, pouring over a ledger, a linen rota, notes from delivery boys. He saw the look on her face when the bell rang, when he sighed and pushed back his chair at the head of the table and he noticed how her hand hovered a bit, as if she wanted to touch him. But she didn't. If she had, he'd be less nervous now.

He is nervous because he knows the speech that is coming from the young woman's lips.

Valued. Part of Downton. Loyal.

Getting on. Cottage. Annuity.

He nods at the right moments, tries to look neutral and he is a good butler, arguably the best in the county, so he succeeds while he thinks about that cottage, how she could help him choose curtains and furniture and he worries because how will he sleep if she is not three feet away from him, how he'll get through the day when he knows she is in the attics, getting up early, smoothing over unpleasantries between her girls, who don't all have her cheerful disposition first thing.

"Will you think about it, Carson?" Lady Mary asks and he gently raises himself from the chair, knowing it is the end of the conversation - of being talked at instead of with and he looks at the young lady who has taken on the responsibility of running the estate after the accident, whose life is a maze of shadows more than happiness and he says 'yes', that he will consider her offer very seriously, that he will let her know by the end of the week.

Asks if there is anything she wants, needs. Offers tea. She declines with a sad look.

For the first time he wonders if there will be more people who'll miss him when he leaves, that he has been so focused on her (who he never names) that he has forgotten there are other people under this roof who feel him essential, or at least part of their lives.

Lady Mary and her sisters - the baby who has left them a small replica, all bouncy brown curls and sweet disposition, the middle one who cannot find her purpose, the woman in front of him who remains too thin, her eyes glazed over - who has seen grow up, their parents who are only five years his junior, their grandmother whose body is frail and failing, but her tongue sharp, her mind fast. It's his family, the only family he has ever known.

2.

When the bell rang and he pushed back his chair, she had wanted to put her hand on his, to touch him, but she didn't dare, knew all their eyes were on him. So she had tried to smile encouraging.

They all went back to their elevenses, their tea and slices of fresh bread slathered in butter and she thought how he would miss this, how he would miss sitting here with his staff, his footmen and hallboys, her maids, the valet. How he would miss overseeing them all (she would miss having him at her side, to back her up, to squabble with, to discuss her worries with, to help him ease his burdens). She knows he doesn't see them as his family, that he doesn't know what family is. He feels it's them upstairs.

He is wrong.

He does all the things right by instinct. He fiercely believed in Mr Bates innocence, like he would believe his brother. He took Daisy's arm to lead her to her wedding, like he would a fatherless niece. He teaches Alfred all the tricks of the trade like he would a son. He may not see it this way, but they are his family and they will all miss him when he won't be there.

She'll miss him.

She wonders how she will sleep without his gentle snoring not three feet away, how she will get through the day without his kind words at breakfast when she has already scolded her girls for being sullen. She will miss him sharing the leftover wine, their talk before bed.

She drains her cup, gets up, making sure not to make any sound, hopes to slip away to her parlour, to maybe get on with some work, but she knows she won't, knows she will think of him, worry about what they will offer him in retirement: a cottage, a place in the pew on Sunday, food sent from the kitchens and she knows he won't like it, won't like the hand outs and she moves through the hall alone (his voice is missing from the chatter around the table she has left, his footsteps are not behind her).

There is a knock not long after she's shut the door, she's not even sat down yet and she closes her eyes for a moment, thinks how she needs some time to herself, that she cannot deal with someone else's problems right now, that her heart is breaking and that she needs to be able to piece it back together without the glue that's been holding it tight for a long, long time and she needs solitude to do so. But she says 'enter', because it's her job and her pain must wait, had better wait until he is back, until he tells her about his 'word' with Lady Mary.

Anna steps inside, closes the door behind her carefully, waits to be told to sit down and she does - the small figure in his place and she can feel her throat tighten.

"He'll be back soon." The girl says. "It will be alright."